


you've set on me

by lissome



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: (kind of lol), Alternate Universe, Enemies to Lovers, Famous Harry, Fluff and Angst, M/M, dumb boys who can't communicate, sort-of famous Louis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-03 16:33:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 31,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6618046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lissome/pseuds/lissome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Harry’s been completely blindsided, is the thing. Like a car without headlights crashing into him. It’s not that he thought he’d never see Louis again in his life. It’s just this. He wasn’t ready for this.</i>
</p><p>au. louis' in an obscure band. harry's an international popstar. their paths aren't meant to cross, not like this, but when louis' band signs on as harry's opening act, both harry and louis are forced to confront the open wounds of their shared past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dianna44](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dianna44/gifts).



> DiAnna44, i picked your prompt about famous au and enemies to lovers. i wanted to include a lot more stuff in this but time was against me, unfortunately. nevertheless, i really, really hope you like this (even though they're not _quite_ enemies)!!  <3
> 
> special thanks to my darling gf for being my beta :))
> 
> title is from brand new's "not the sun"

 

It’s a Saturday morning, and there is a cockroach on Louis’ bed.

He jerks awake from the fog of a dream he can’t quite remember and slaps his blaring iPhone alarm off, his vision slowly focusing on a blurry brown blob. The blob moves, and it has _antennae_ , and Louis shrieks loud enough to wake up all the guests at this crappy, run-down motel, scrambling away from the skittering bug so fast that he falls to the floor, tangled in his sheets. The cockroach disappears under the pillow Louis had just vacated. 

“Lou?” A sleepy mumble sounds from one of the two sleeping bags on the motel floor. Niall pokes his head up, blonde hair tufted and sticking up every which way, and blinks blearily at Louis. He looks like a disgruntled owl. “Was’ happening?” 

At the same time, the bathroom door bangs open, Liam running out with his toothbrush hanging out of his mouth, white foam dripping down his chin, eyes alarmed. “What’s going on?”

Louis clambers to his feet, eyes frantically running over every square inch of the stained, carpeted floor.

“Cockroach,” he gasps out. “In my _bed_!” 

“Mm. That’s nice,” Niall says, eyes already drooping closed again. 

Liam wrinkles his nose and swipes some toothpaste off his face. “Yeah, I just killed one of its friends in the bathroom. Wasn’t fun.” 

Louis exhales, his heartbeat finally slowing down. His eyes still scan the floor routinely. “We should’ve just slept in the van.” 

Liam snorts, walking back to the bathroom and spitting in the sink. “We let you have the bed, Lou. You’re the one who refused to sleep in the van.”

“Excuse you. I’m a delicate flower,” Louis sniffs.

“Who screams like a banshee. I thought someone was getting murdered.”

“I’m going to murder you two if you don’t stop making noise,” Niall mumbles from the floor.

Louis rolls his eyes and kicks at his sleeping bag. “You have to get up, anyway. We’ve gotta hit the road soon if we want to make it back to LA in time.”

Niall groans.

They’ve got their final gig lined up at the Bootleg in Los Angeles--they’d thought it appropriate to bring things to a close at home--and, seeing as they’re currently at the outskirts of Monterey, they’ve got a good five hours’ drive ahead of them. Their tour--and Louis uses that word very loosely--has consisted of months of driving through the West Coast, sleeping in shitty motels like this one, snatching up gigs wherever they could. The money they make is paltry, and a lot of the places they’ve performed have been a bit skeevy. It’s far from glamorous, and it’s times like these, when he wakes up to a fucking cockroach in his bed, that Louis maybe feels a bit bitter about it all.

He doesn’t regret it, though. Not when he’s pursuing his dreams. Not when he can’t afford to regret it.

Cockroach scare over, Louis grabs his own toothbrush from his bag and makes his way over to the bathroom, giving the bed a wide berth. The sink is crusted with calcified water, the mirror above it cracked and exposing black where it’s been chipped. The faucet gurgles and spits out an icy trickle of water when Louis turns the knob.

God, he misses their apartment. The air conditioning barely works and the hot water is temperamental at best, but it’s better than this. He’s going to leave this place a scathing Yelp review as soon as he gets home.

Niall crawls out of his sleeping bag and braves the tiny shower with its yellowing, mildew-stained curtain while Louis sprays himself with deodorant and hopes for the best before throwing on a tank and denim cutoffs. Liam is already dressed and ready to go, looking for places to eat and planning out their route. Louis doesn’t know where they’d be without him, honestly.

They’re out of the door before the sun hits its zenith, the sky crisp and blue and colored with summer. Liam goes to the front desk to check them out while Louis and Niall toss their stuff into the van.

Their van is a beat-up, forest green Dodge Ram, the model long outdated. They’d pooled their money back when they’d still lived in Oakland and picked it up secondhand. The seats are stained, the paint is peeling in some spots, and only one of the windshield wipers works, but they’re all unbearably fond of it. The van has character, memories--there’s the ketchup stain on the ceiling from when Louis was trying to prove that no, Liam, ketchup would not come squirting out if you squeezed the bottle upside down; the decal on the rear bumper that reads “I’m so gay I can’t even drive straight”; the cracked air conditioning vent that Liam had accidentally kicked in while drunk-dancing. It’s a part of them, as a band.

So, yeah. Louis loves their shitty, perfect van.

Liam comes back from check-out and drives them to a McDonald’s off the 101 freeway. Niall stuffs his face with Egg McMuffins while Louis injects some life into himself with a paper cup of tea and pancakes drenched in golden syrup. Liam, the absolute nutter, eats a salad.

They get back on the road before noon. The drive is tedious and Louis nods off in the backseat to the low hum of the crackly stereo playing Niall’s awful Top 40 mix CD. When he blinks awake, it’s to the familiar LA skyline, glass skyscrapers stretching towards the sun, muted by the blue-tinted haze of smog. The sight fills Louis with a silvery contentment; the city really has become home to him.

Traffic isn’t too bad after they get through a spot of congestion downtown, so they get to the Bootleg just past five. It’s a nondescript warehouse-style building, all dull grey cement and a flat structure. Inside, the walls and ceiling are exposed wood and brick, the floor in front of the stage dotted with a few round tables and barstools. There’s a quaint little bar on one side, the wall behind it plastered with a colorful mix of posters. It’s nothing fancy, but the lighting is warm and it feels novel, different from the seedier places they’ve played. It’s a fair bit bigger, too. Louis decides he likes it.

The technicians and stage crew are friendly as they help them set up for soundcheck. They chatter and make small talk, and one of them, a lanky man with close-cropped dark hair, tells Niall, “Yeah, this venue is great. A lot of people who are big-name acts now played here. My friend who worked here a few years back said Harry Styles did a show here.”

And damn it, Louis can’t help it, but he stiffens at the name. Niall and Liam don’t notice.

“Oh, that’s sick!” Niall exclaims. “He’s really good.”

“Voice of an angel,” Liam agrees, a bit dreamy.

“I don’t get what’s so special about him,” Louis cuts in, voice louder than necessary, and god, why can he never keep his mouth shut? “His music’s so boring.”

The crew member they’d been talking to holds his hands up. “Hey, man. We’re all entitled to our own opinions.”

Louis shrugs and turns back to fiddling with his mic, willing himself to get a grip.

Soundcheck goes smoothly, leaving them with a bit of time to kill before doors open and the place starts filling up, so the three of them settle at the bar. They sip beers and Niall flirts with the pretty bartender.

“It’s good to be home, huh?” Liam says, licking some foam off the top of his lip. “Well, I mean. Second home.”

Louis smiles, remembering when he, Niall, and Liam had first moved from Oakland to their tiny apartment in Los Angeles. It’d been a pretty big adjustment, transplanting from one side of California to the other, but they’ve all grown fond of this loud, dirty city with its cracked pavements and vibrant people.

“My parents said they’re thinking of moving down here,” Liam continues. “They’d be closer to me, and Nicola and Ruth too.”

“That’d be nice,” Louis says, wistful. “We’ve got too many little ones for Mom and Dan to even think about moving.”

“How are they, anyway? Did you have a good visit yesterday?”

“Yeah, they’re good. Lottie’s new boyfriend came over.”

Liam laughs, eyes nearly squinting shut. “Poor guy. I bet that must have been terrifying for him.”

Louis winks and takes a gulp of beer. “Don’t worry, Payno. I only made him shit his pants once.”

They’ve nearly finished with their beers when a woman in a black polo pops her head around the corner of the stage and calls, “Doors are opening in a few.”

Louis drains the last dregs in his bottle and stands up, running a hand through his hair. He claps Liam and Niall on the back. “Showtime, boys.”

 

\--

 

The show goes well enough, the crowd a bit more mellow than usual but responsive all the same. The standing applause they receive at the end is gratifying, and Louis shouts, “Thank you all! Again, we’re Dizzy November!” while Niall throws his guitar pick into the crowd as if he’s famous and the little piece of plastic will be auctioned off on Ebay for hundreds of dollars.

Ha. Big dreams.

He, Niall, and Liam are back at the bar as soon as they’ve packed up their stuff, Liam hauling his drum kit back to the van while Niall keeps his guitar out, no doubt to drunkenly put on a show later. People come up to compliment them time and time again, and Louis is plied with so many free drinks that soon enough he’s far more drunk than he had planned on getting; everything’s blurry, the haze of alcohol and the pounding music playing through the venue speakers spinning together like stars. It feels nice.

Louis loses Liam and Niall a while in--he figures they’re probably hitting on girls and making fools of themselves--so he’s sitting at the bar by himself, half eavesdropping on the bartender’s conversation with the person sitting next to him, when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He turns around, and his jaw nearly drops to the floor.

The man standing before him looks like he’s been sculpted by Aphrodite herself. He’s wearing a leather jacket and ripped jeans, dark hair shaved at the sides and silver on the top, and his eyelashes are sooty and thick enough to cast long shadows over the crest of his cheekbones. He smells like smoke; he looks like smoke.

“Hi,” is all that comes out of Louis’ mouth.

“Hey,” the beautiful man says. His voice is velvet and bourbon. A small smile pulls at the plush bow of his lips. “Just wanted to say that your band was sick.”

Louis beams, the pleased flush on his face blooming anew. “Thanks.”

“Yeah, sure. I’m Zayn, by the way.” He settles into the empty seat next to Louis.

Zayn. Zayn, Zayn, Zayn. For such an unusual name, it sounds familiar to Louis. He can’t quite place his finger on it, especially not through the haze of alcohol still fogging his mind.

“‘M Louis.”

Zayn _laughs_. It’s a sudden, throaty thing, and Louis doesn’t know what’s funny, but the sound is nice. Eventually, his face settles into something more serious, though there’s still mirth twinkling in his eyes.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Louis.”

The bartender appears, setting a glass of amber liquid in front of Zayn with a smile, before flitting to other customers. Beautiful people collect smiles, Louis thinks.

Zayn takes a drink, throat bobbing. It’s actually fascinating to watch him move; it’s like looking at sentient art. “Are you from around here?”

Louis twirls the longer piece of his bangs around his finger. “I live here, yeah, but grew up in the Bay Area. Went to Berkeley. Dropped out and moved here with my bandmates to get more into the music scene. I like it here. I miss the rain, though, isn’t that weird?”

Zayn hums. “Cool. I have a friend who also went to Berkeley.”

Louis shrugs and releases the hair, eyes crossing as he watches it spin back into place. “It’s a big school.”

Talking about college makes him think of things he doesn’t want to think about, not when he’s warm and well past buzzed, so instead, he burps loudly and says, “Are you a model or something?”

Zayn laughs at that, nose crinkling up. “Nah, man. I’m in music, too. Producing.”

“You should be a model,” Louis says, determined. He’s already forgotten what Zayn just said. “You’ve got, like, high fashion vibes. GQ. Blueberry. Whatever the fuck.”

“Dude, you’re drunk.”

“Very,” Louis agrees happily. He eyes Zayn’s drink. “You gonna drink that?”

Zayn lifts an eyebrow at him, amused, then tilts his head back and drains the entire glass, and fucking hell, it’s like something out of a movie. He sets the glass down and thumbs a drop of liquid off his upper lip. “I think you’ve had enough to drink, Louis.”

Louis pouts. He’s great at holding his liquor, thank you very much. He can definitely drink more. He’s small, but mighty. Like Yoda.

“You’re more like an Ewok, actually,” Zayn says with a grin, and Louis realizes he’s been thinking aloud.

“Ewoks are cute,” Louis allows.

“They are,” Zayn agrees.

They sit there in companionable silence for a while, and then Zayn says, “Hey, listen.”

Louis listens.

“Do you have any gigs coming up?”

Louis shakes his head. The motion makes his vision swim. “Nah. This is our last show for a bit. We’re probably gonna work on some music, try to get signed.”

“Perfect.” Zayn flashes him a grin, perfect teeth glinting in the dim light, and there’s just the barest hint of mischief tucked into the curl of his upper lip. He stands up, pocketing his phone. “I’ve gotta get going, but it was good meeting you, man. Best of luck to you and your band.”

Louis salutes him. “Cheers.”

“Maybe we’ll see each other around.”

And then Zayn’s gone, melting away in the crowd, and Louis isn’t sure if he’d just hallucinated the whole thing. 

He finds Niall and Liam a few minutes later, Niall sitting on a couch by the pool table and singing Wonderwall, guitar notes still flowing smoothly from his alcohol-laced fingers. A gaggle of girls surround him, and Liam is in the middle of the fray, chatting up a leggy, soft-eyed brunette. It takes a little effort, but Louis manages to pull them away, whining about how tired he is.

Liam, sober, responsible Liam, drives them home (only after he’d gotten the number of the girl he’d been talking to). Louis stumbles into the creaky elevator, and the apartment door sticks when Liam tries to open it, but once he’s inside, the dingy white walls and water-stained ceiling flood Louis with relief.

He nearly cries when he flops down onto his squeaky, cockroach-free mattress, and is out like a light within seconds.

 

\--

 

The world is a golden, glittery blur.

Someone presses something into his hand--another drink--and Harry laughs like he’s never known how to do anything else, tilting his head back and pouring the contents of the glass down his throat, the liquid burning a trail of fire. The room tilts and spins. He wipes his mouth off on the back of his hand and shouts, “Another round, then?”

Everyone around him cheers.

Harry orders another round, bubbly and bright. The shots arrive quickly and are passed around. Next to him, Ed, face flushed and eyes glossy, lifts his glass and yells, “To our platinum wonder boy, Harry Styles!”

“To Harry!” everyone cries, and Harry throws back his head once again, body ablaze.

He’s long ago lost track of how many drinks he’s had; all he knows is that he’s well past drunk and everything is warm and nice and he’s so damn happy. He’s surrounded by his friends and there’s good music playing and he’s drank champagne worth more than his car and his album is certified fucking platinum.

He beams to himself, remembering Nick waking him up this morning with a screech of “You’ve gone bloody platinum!” over the phone. An excellent way to start the day, to say the least.

He’s dragged out of this pleasant memory by a warm hand on his shoulder. He doesn’t even need to look to know who it is; he’d recognize the unique scent of smoke, spicy cologne, and leather anywhere.

“Zayn!” he all but squeals, turning and wrapping his arms around his best friend’s bony shoulders. “You made it!”

“Of course,” Zayn says in his low voice, returning the hug. “Congrats, H. You deserve it.”

“Thank you,” Harry answers beatifically, before promptly burping into Zayn’s neck. He giggles at the scandalized look on Zayn’s face and grabs the first not-empty shot glass he sees, waving it in front of Zayn’s nose. “Now drink! The night is young!”

Zayn sighs, exasperated but fond. He takes the shot.

The night seeps into early morning in a blur of never-ending laughter and the sweet burn of alcohol. Nick knows how to throw a party, and the fact that this one is for Harry makes it all the better. Nick even got Calvin Harris to DJ. Nick is the best producer ever.

“You’re the best producer ever,” Harry mumbles, cheek squished against Nick’s shoulder. Nick smells like expensive cologne and whiskey. It’s a bit overpowering, but Harry can’t bring himself to move, especially not when this couch is so comfortable.

“I know, love,” Nick answers, English accent all the thicker in his drunken state, patting Harry’s head like he’s a kitten. Harry meows, then giggles at himself.

He barely notices when Nick gently detaches himself to go to the bathroom, just tilts over and rests his head against the plush back of the couch instead. His limbs feel leaden, everything slow and syrupy. He stares at the chandelier in Nick’s living room, soaked in the multi-hued lights that wash over the house, the tiers of glass glowing an aurora borealis of color. It’s mesmerizing.

He’s not alone for long, hasn’t been the whole night, what with everyone coming up to him to congratulate him. Zayn sits down next to him, the smell of cigarette smoke on him more pungent than before; he’s clearly just had a smoke.

“Hi, Zayn,” he slurs, smiling at him big and wide and immediately cuddling into his side.

“Hi.” Zayn smiles back at him, a crystal tumbler in his hands, rings glinting subtly in the light. His hair is gelled back pristinely and for once, he looks every inch the ridiculously wealthy music producer he is.

“Do you like the party? Are you having a good time?” Harry peers at him with wide eyes. He knows Zayn hates these kinds of events, finds them pretentious and overtly grandiose--his words, not Harry’s--but still comes to them for Harry’s sake.

Zayn shrugs, the movement fluid. “I just walked past Taylor Swift dancing in the bathtub, so there’s that.”

Harry guffaws.

“You having a good time, then? You’re the golden boy of the night. Or platinum boy, I guess I should say.” Zayn’s lips quirk up.

Harry giggles into his shoulder. “I’m having an amazing time! Everyone is so nice. And I think Nick filled his fountain with champagne.”

Zayn mutters, “Of course he did.”

He sets his tumbler down and slings an arm around Harry. “Well, I’m about to make your night even better, man. I have good news for you.”

“What? What? What is it?”

“I found someone who can open for you.”

Harry gapes at him, delighted. “You did? Zayn, you’re the best.”

“I know,” Zayn smirks.

“What’s their name?”

“Dizzy November. I saw them last night at the Bootleg, they said they didn’t have any shows coming up. They’re small, not even signed yet.”

Harry claps in excitement. “That’s perfect, Zayn. I love when I can help small acts get their name out there.”

“I know you do. I think you’ll really like them, I’ll send you some of their stuff tomorrow so you can check it out when you’re sober. And I’ll have a word with Simon, so he doesn’t give you too hard of a time.”

“Thanks, Z,” Harry sighs, happy and relieved.

Just two days ago, his opening act had dropped out of the tour due to an illness in the band. With Harry’s tour starting in less than two weeks, it had put Harry in a bit of a predicament. It’s not really in his power to make the final decision on who opens for him, nor is it in Zayn’s--Zayn isn’t actually part of his team, after all--but one thing Harry had really pushed for before he’d embarked on his first tour was to have a say in choosing his opening acts. He doesn’t have control over much--that’s just the way Simon, his manager, runs things--so that was important to him.

Luckily, he has Zayn. Simon, though he’ll never admit it, is completely intimidated by Zayn. This is most likely due to the fact that Zayn’s father is one of the biggest entertainment executives in the world. One e-mail from Zayn, and a name drop of his father, is enough to spring a leak in Simon’s pec implants. Zayn finds it all awfully funny, especially since he hosts a strong distaste towards Simon.

Though, as Harry’s learned, so do most people; Simon’s not so much liked as begrudgingly respected. He’s cunning, an excellent businessman, and Harry has to attribute the skyrocket of his career to him, but he hasn’t made a name for himself by being a good person.

Harry thanks the heavens every day for allowing him to meet Zayn at an industry party four years ago, back when he was just beginning his meteoric rise to fame. Zayn had shown him the ropes, taken him under his wing in a way Simon hadn’t; he really has been Harry’s rock in these past few years.

And what a whirlwind it’s been. Harry can hardly believe it sometimes, how quickly his life has changed in such a small handful of years. From college student to international popstar. From frat parties to extravagant house parties hosted by one of the most well-known producers in the industry, surrounded by some of the biggest names in music.

He sometimes wonders if this all happened too fast, if he’s missed out on some things. If he’d left behind something he shouldn’t have.

Now, though, with the bass pounding through his bones and drunk on tequila and success, Harry doesn’t regret any of it, doesn’t dwell on the possibility of regret. Instead, he pulls Zayn up with him and drinks more champagne and eats fancy hor d'oeuvres and talks and laughs until the sky outside lightens to a muted, washed-out grey and the world is asleep enough for Harry to think he could own it all someday.

 

\--

 

Harry hates the sun. He absolutely loathes it.

The sunlight that streams through his window feels like an assault. His head is pounding, mouth dry and sour. He feels two inches from death.

He’s never drinking again, he decides.

A light knock sounds at his door, and Harry groans feebly in response. It cracks open, his mom poking her head in.

“You awake, babe?” she asks softly.

“I wish I weren’t,” Harry says, voice muffled in his pillow.

His mom chuckles and comes into the room, sitting on the bed and running a soothing hand through his hair. “I come bearing gifts.”

When Harry cracks his eyes open, she’s holding out a bottle of Advil and a glass of water.

“You’re the best, Mom,” he says weakly, struggling to sit up and taking the items from her. His head gives a violent throb as he shakes two pills out and he winces, swallowing the pills and gulping down three-fourths of the water in one go.

“Well, it’s already past noon, but I’ll make you breakfast,” his mom says, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Nothing like some good bacon grease to cure a hangover.”

Harry smiles gratefully at her. He’ll really miss being taken care of like this when he’s back on the road.

Once she’s gone, Harry crawls miserably out of his bed and into the shower, the hot water sluicing off all the stale sweat and alcohol clinging to him from last night. He feels a little better after he shuts the water off, the minty sting of his toothpaste heaven-sent in his rancid-tasting mouth. By the time he’s toweled off his hair and slipped into sweats and a t-shirt, he feels vaguely human again.

It smells like bacon and sausages when Harry makes his way downstairs. His mom smiles at him when he pads into the kitchen.

“Feeling better?”

“A little.” Harry pulls open the fridge and pours himself a glass of cranberry juice. He sips at it and watches his mom flip pancakes on the griddle.

“How was the party last night?” she asks. “I hope they celebrated you proper. Platinum is huge!”

Harry laughs. “They did. I had a good time. Calvin Harris DJ’d and there was lots of good champagne. And Zayn managed to find someone to open for me!”

“Yeah?” Anne slides the pancakes onto a plate, where strips of bacon and perfectly browned sausages are already waiting. “That’s good to hear. I remember how stressed you were about that. Who’s the new artist, then?”

Harry tilts his head, frowning. “I forgot their name. October something? I’ll have to text Zayn.”

“After breakfast,” Anne tells him sternly, handing him the plate with raised eyebrows. “No phones at the table.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

His cheek earns him a slap on the butt, but he keeps his phone in his pocket all through the meal. His mom joins him at the table, sipping a cup of coffee. She talks to him about Robin’s new job, about the trip she wants to take with Gemma once Gemma has the chance to take some time off of work. It’s nice and normal and just another one of the things Harry misses when he’s halfway across the world.

As if reading his mind, his mom sighs and says, “I can’t believe you’re leaving so soon. It feels like I just got you back.”

“I know,” Harry says softly, before quirking his lips up mischievously. “There’ll be no one to bring me Advil and kiss me better once I’m on tour.”

“Really? No one to kiss you better?” Anne’s eyes gleam.

Harry groans and covers his face with a hand. “Mom.”

“I’m serious! Is there anyone special in your life I should know about?”

Harry stuffs the last strip of bacon in his mouth. “No, there isn’t.”

Anne tuts. “When’s the last time you even went on a date?”

“I don’t have time for a proper relationship,” he protests weakly. He really, really does not want to talk about this.

“What about Zayn? Lord knows that boy is gorgeous. And you’re with him all the time.”

“Mom! Zayn and I are just friends. I’m really not looking for anything right now.”

“Harry.” Her voice is gentle now, serious. Harry dreads what’s coming. “Is this still because of him?”

Harry’s heart thumps unevenly. This is exactly what he’d been hoping to avoid. He swallows, stares down at his empty plate and mumbles, “It has nothing to do with him.”

His mom is quiet for a long moment; Harry can feel her scrutinizing gaze on him. He fights not to fidget.

Finally, she says, “Okay. I won’t press the issue.”

Harry breathes a sigh of relief and stands up, stacking Anne’s empty coffee cup on top of his dirty plate. “Thanks for breakfast, Mom.”

She smiles up at him, a little sad. “Of course, darling.”

He scurries to the kitchen and makes quick work of washing the dishes, scrubbing them with orange-scented dish soap that leaves clumps of foam in the sink. He tries not to dwell on his mom’s words.

Once he’s done, he goes up to his room and pulls his phone out to text Zayn. When he unlocks the screen, a message from Zayn is already waiting for him.

_Dizzynovember.bandcamp.com :) x_

He clicks the link, and the page that comes up is plain and barely customized, the bio only reading “We’re an extraordinarily handsome trio based in Los Angeles who believe in the power of peace, love, and In-n-out french fries.” There are a couple of EPs, titled Untitled 1, Untitled 2, and Untitled 3. After a moment of deliberation, he chooses Untitled 3.

Harry listens to it all the way through, and then listens to Untitled 2, and then Untitled 1. And then he does the only thing he can do at that point.

He dials Simon.

 

\--

 

“Lou.”

“Nngh.”

“Louis.”

“Nngh. Fuck off.”

“Wake the fuck up.”

“Nnnnng--hey!”

Louis jolts up in bed, cold water dripping off of his face and darkening the pale blue of his sheets. He pushes wet hair away from his eyes and glares at Niall. “What the fuck, man?" 

Niall shrugs and sets his glass down on Louis’ bedside table. “Sorry. It was an accident.”

Liam’s laughter fills the room, and Louis turns to glare at him, too. Liam’s mouth instantly snaps shut.

“One of you better have a good reason for doing that,” Louis threatens as he peels off his soaked t-shirt, balling it up and throwing it in the general direction of his laundry basket. He checks his phone; it’s eight in the morning, which is absolutely illegal.

“Oh, we do,” Niall assures him. Louis squints at him, and then Liam, suspiciously. They’re both awfully chipper this early in the morning. Well, it’s not unusual for Liam, who gets up at the asscrack of dawn to go running, but Niall usually isn’t awake before noon, so this is definitely weird.

Louis crosses his arms and lifts a brow at them. “Let’s hear it then.”

“Guess who just called.”

“Who?”

“You have to guess!”

Niall is obviously enjoying the suspense. Louis rolls his eyes and plays along.

He puts his hand to his chin, scrunching up his brow and pretending to think very hard. “Obama.”

“No. I wish, though,” Niall sighs.

“David Beckham, to tell you that he’s fallen in love with me and is coming to sweep me away." 

“ _Y_ _ou_ wish,” Liam says.

Patience worn out, Louis flicks each of their foreheads and sighs, “Just tell me.”

“Simon Cowell,” Niall says, and then: “Harry Styles’ manager,” he and Liam say simultaneously, with the air of someone who’s just announced that Donald Trump has dropped out of the presidential campaign.

Just like that, the earth stops spinning. Louis is frozen, a pebble at the bottom of the rushing current of a river. His stomach is full of stones and he’s sinking, sinking and drowning. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.

He tries again, and his voice sounds strangled. “What did he want?”

Niall bounces onto Louis’ bed, excitement radiating from him in waves. “Harry wants us to open for him on his upcoming tour. He wants _us_.”

“We told him we’d call back after we talked to you,” Liam adds. “Like, just to be safe. I mean, you do want to do it, right?”

“It’s _Harry Styles_ ,” Niall says.

“I--” Louis blinks rapidly, his head spinning, spinning even though the world has stopped. “I don’t know.”

Niall and Liam stare at him incredulously.

“It’s _Harry Styles_ ,” Niall says again.

Which is exactly the problem, Louis thinks sourly.

“Lou, this is huge. Like, this could be our big break.” Liam’s eyes are wide and imploring. Louis has to look away from them.

“I don’t see why we would want to ride on his coattails for fame,” Louis mutters, a bit testily. Fuck, his head is starting to hurt. It’s way too early for any of this. “There’s nothing wrong with working for something.”

“Lou,” Liam says, and there he goes with the puppy eyes. “We’ve been working for _years_. If we do this, it’ll mean no more crappy motels, no more broken air conditioning, no more scrounging for gigs. Like, we could be famous.”

“I mean, it’s _Harry Styles_ ,” Niall says.

“What, you got a crush on him or something?” Louis snaps at Niall, his mouth moving before his brain can catch up.

Niall just rolls his eyes, taking no affront at Louis’ tone. “He’s good-looking enough. And man, he can sing.”

“ _Dreaming in Blue_ is amazing,” Liam agrees. “Really sad, but amazing.”

“Oh god, I know,” Niall sighs. “I think I cried to Don’t Let Me Go like, ten times.”

“Have you two quite finished,” Louis cuts in irritably. His mind is in overdrive, a hundred different emotions warring to get through, screaming at him. It makes his headache worse.

“Okay, look. I know you don’t like his music,” Niall says, turning back to Louis, “but this isn’t something we should pass up.”

“We’d be stupid not to take it,” Liam adds.

Louis’ eyes flit from Liam to Niall, back and forth; he can see in their eyes how badly they want this. It really is a huge opportunity. He’d only be holding the band back if he refuses.

But Harry Styles?

The universe really has it out for him, Louis thinks bitterly. He sighs.

“Get out.”

Niall and Liam gape at him.

“But--” Niall starts.

Louis cuts him off. “I’m not saying no. I need to think about it, and right now, I can’t do that with you two loudmouths here.”

After a final meaningful look and another healthy dose of puppy eyes from Liam, they leave, the door clicking shut reluctantly behind them. As soon as it’s closed, Louis crawls under his blankets. In the warm darkness that envelops him, he shuts his eyes and takes shaky breaths, willing his head to stop throbbing and his heart to stop beating like it’s trying to burst out of his chest.

Fucking hell, what’s happening to him? Why is this getting to him like this? It’s stupid that he feels like a teenager again, fragile and hiding in the darkness with his heart on his tongue. He’s better than this.

He throws the covers off resolutely, the pale sunlight blinding him momentarily, and crawls out of bed and into the shower, letting the hot water and the steam turn his skin fiery pink. It helps ease his headache a bit, makes him feel less like stabbing himself in the eye with the wooden handle of his loofah. After he gets out of the shower, he wraps a towel around his waist and brushes his teeth, slow and for a lot longer than necessary. Only when a crack of blood appears between his front teeth, the bristles having nicked the tender gum, does he stop.

By the time he’s rinsed the toothpaste out of his mouth, his heartbeat is relatively steady, the jumble of feelings pushed to the back of his mind as best as he can. He knows what the right thing to do is.

He throws on some joggers and the first clean t-shirt he can find before taking a deep breath and walking towards the bedroom door. This is it, Tomlinson. There’s no backing out now.

When he opens the door, Niall and Liam are sitting in the hallway like abandoned puppies. Their eyes immediately turn to Louis, hope bright and shiny in their faces.

He takes his sweet time, standing there and staring at them with his hands on his hips. It’s funny to watch them squirm. Finally, he decides to have mercy on them and says, “Fine. I’m not happy about it, and you’re lucky I’m so fond of you, but fine.”

Niall and Liam’s loud whoops fill the hallway, the two of them leaping up and piling onto Louis in celebration. They smack kisses on Louis’ face, excited babble filling his ears. Louis just shuts his eyes tight and prays to a god he’s not sure he believes in that he hasn’t just made a huge mistake.

 

\--

 

Harry drums his fingers on the steering wheel impatiently. The staccato noise punctuates the blaring honks of cars in a discordant symphony. He moves his car forward another few feet, the sun hitting him right in the face, before he has to step on the brakes again.

He flips down the visor and gives a small sigh. He may be used to LA traffic, but that doesn’t mean it’s not still a pain in the ass. The studio’s normally a fifteen to twenty minute drive from his house; it’s taking him nearly double that time now.

Tour starts in a week, so he’s squeezing in a last rehearsal. He hasn’t been doing this long enough that he doesn’t still get terrible stage fright sometimes, and he wants to be at his best when he steps out in front of all those people. Plus, he wants to meet his new opening act, see what they can do, how they mesh, before tour gets underway.

A few days ago, Dizzy November had confirmed that they wanted to work with Harry, to his relief. He’d had to push hard for Jeff, his agent, to back him up, and even harder for Simon to agree, even with the good word Zayn had put in. In the end, though, it had all worked out, and Harry’s delighted to expose the world to a brilliant new band. He’s genuinely fallen in love with their music, especially the soft rasp of the singer’s voice.

He finally manages to make it past the traffic light and onto the street of the studio. He pulls around to the back and parks, gliding into a spot that’s partially shaded by a large tree with wispy leaves. As soon as he opens the door, the cool air conditioning of his car is replaced by a wave of summer heat, and he quickly tosses his hair into a bun before he gets out of the car.

Inside, the studio is blissfully air-conditioned, although the temperature is a bit low and has his skin prickling within a minute. His band’s already there, Josh setting up his drum kit, Jade unpacking amps, Jon plinking away at the keyboard. Triple J, Harry calls them, for obvious reasons.

“Heyyy,” Harry calls out. He goes around and gives each of them a hug. “Sorry I’m a bit late, traffic was crazy.”

“No worries, man, we know how it is,” Jade says with a loud sigh. “Took me nearly an hour to get home yesterday.”

The rest of the band makes sympathetic noises.

And yeah, LA is a mess of cars glinting hot and dirty in the sun, driven by people who honk like they’re playing an instrument, but Harry grew up here. It’d been nice up north, especially San Francisco with its quaint houses wedged together like building blocks. He’s always known he’d end up back here, though.

He begins doing some warm-ups as the others finish setting up. He’s been trying to take better care of his vocal cords, like his coach had told him, but he doesn’t quite know how successful he’s been with that. He thinks he sounds okay, so he figures he’s fine. Nothing some rest and some water won’t take care of.

“Hey, I checked out Dizzy November,” Jon says once Harry has finished and is cracking open a water bottle. “Those guys are great.”

Jade and Josh immediately voice their agreements, Jade waxing poetic about the guitarist’s riffs.

Harry grins. “I’m glad you guys like them.”

He’s excited to meet the band, too. He hasn’t done any research on them, thinks that would take some genuineness out of their interactions; he doesn’t want to form any assumptions before he properly meets them. Besides, he has eight months to get to know them, and that’ll give him more information than any Wikipedia article could.

Once everyone’s ready to go, they start off with the first song on the setlist: Dreaming in Blue, the title track from his first album and one of his most popular songs. It goes off without a hitch--Harry knows this song better than the back of his hand. It’s one of the first ones he’d written for the album, lyrics spilled onto the creamy pages of his journal in the latest hours of the night.

“Let’s practice something we actually need to practice,” Jon says jokingly.

Harry contemplates, perusing the setlist. Maybe Lighthouse needs some work, since it’s one of the newer songs.

They’re just about to start playing it when Harry hears the studio door open, sunlight streaming in, layers of voices echoing in the space.

“Is that them?” Jade asks, craning her head to get a good look.

“Yeah, should be,” he says, glancing over, and then his voice is dying in his throat, because he’s looking at them, and the slight figure walking behind the other two, hands in his sweatshirt pocket, hood up and head down...it’s familiar.

No. No, no. It’s impossible. There’s no way in hell fate would be this cruel.

And then they’re walking closer, closer, and Harry catches a glimpse of small, bare ankles and his heart jumps into his throat because it can’t be him. It really, really can’t be. For the sake of his own sanity, it can’t be.

They’re almost standing in front of Harry, the three of them, the smallest one still with his head down, still half-hidden behind the other two. He tears his eyes away, focuses on the two in front, years of navigating the industry curving his lips into a smile. After all, impressions are everything.

“Hey, glad you made it,” he tells them, proffering a hand for them to shake, even though his skin is tight with the thought of touching.

The blonde one with a face like the sun grins, toothy and nearly blinding, as he takes his hand. He looks a bit starstruck, face almost childish with it, and Harry is instantly endeared. “Hi! I’m Niall.”

“I’m Liam,” the other guy says, stepping forward to shake Harry’s hand. He has warm eyes and close-cropped brown hair, his hand strong and firm in Harry’s. There’s a mildness, a gentle kindness, in the curves of his features. “It’s so great to meet you.”

Harry directs another smile at them. “It’s a pleasure as well.”

And then his eyes are sliding past them, because he has to know, because there’s no way out, is there? He doesn’t realize he’s been holding his breath until the man looks up, and all the air leaves his chest in one fell swoop.

It is him. Somehow, by some cruel alignment of the stars, it’s him. It’s Louis.

He’s a little thinner, cheeks more hollowed out, jawline sharper and dusted with stubble, hair longer. It’s him, though; Harry had known from the moment he walked in, no matter how hard he tried to deny it.

He doesn’t know what to do. Whether to laugh, scream, cry, or do something dramatic like run out of the room and get in his car and cancel the tour.

Before he can say anything, give form to any one of the million thoughts rushing through his mind, Louis fixes him with a hard look and sticks his hand out. “I’m Louis. Nice to meet you.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but static, blank and fuzzy. And then, quick and sudden as the rising tide, it’s replaced by hot, prickling anger. Harry’s eyes narrow. If that’s how Louis’ going to play it, then so be it. He takes Louis’ hand coolly, gives it a cursory shake before dropping it, doesn’t linger on the feeling of skin on skin.

“It’s so good to meet you all. This is my band,” he says, gesturing behind him. He doesn’t look at Louis. His band introduces themselves, Jade not wasting the opportunity to ask, “Who’s on guitar, then? I think I’m in love.”

Niall raises his hand, grinning.

And that--that’s not right. Because if Niall’s the guitarist, then--

His eyes find Louis, fiddling with a microphone, and it hits Harry like a brick wall.

He’s the singer. He’s the voice that’s been slipping through headphones, thrumming through speakers.

Niall’s saying something then, cutting into Harry’s thoughts. “Man, thanks so much for giving us this opportunity. We really appreciate it.”

His words are genuine, and they draw a smile from Harry, even with the turmoil in his head. “There’s no need to thank me. You deserve this.”

He continues to make conversation with Liam and Niall as they set up. They’re easy to talk to, friendly and open; Niall especially is unflinchingly amiable and never seems to run out of laughter.

But even though this serves as a distraction, defuses some of the tension, Harry’s body is still hyperalert, overly aware of Louis’ presence. He can’t stop his eyes from flicking over to him every few minutes, can’t stop cataloguing the little things about him that are different, all the things that are the same.

Louis sings. That’s different.

Harry’s been completely blindsided, is the thing. Like a car without headlights crashing into him. It’s not that he thought he’d never see Louis again in his life. It’s just this. He wasn’t ready for this.

And he certainly wasn’t ready for Louis to act like they’re strangers.

He grits his teeth and blocks all of that out of his mind, slides bricks into place until the cobwebs of his and Louis’ past are walled off, where they belong.

“Do you want us to play you something?” Niall asks then. “Show you what we’re made of.”

His eagerness is clearly visible. Harry says, “Please do.”

Niall and Liam both look at Louis expectantly, and in that second, the interpersonal hierarchy between the three of them is made clear: Louis is the leader.

Well. Harry can’t say he’s surprised.

Louis delicately swipes a piece of hair from his eyes after a moment of pursing his lips in consideration and says, “Let’s do the one we worked on yesterday.”

So Liam hits the drums, Niall eases effortlessly in with the guitar, and Louis sings.

And...Louis sounds amazing. Just as good as the recordings.

Annoyance flares up in Harry again. He’d expected Louis to be off, somehow, subject to some manifestation of the situation they’re in. But he sings, hand pressed over his stomach, never missing a note, like Harry’s not watching, like Harry’s not even there.

And then Harry starts paying attention to the lyrics.

He knows them. The song’s unfamiliar, not from any of their EPs on Bandcamp, but he would know those lyrics anywhere.

Louis is standing there, in front of Harry, singing _those_ lyrics.

Something in Harry breaks, then, the walls he’d built to keep everything at bay tumbling down like a pile of matchsticks. He’s not annoyed, not anymore.

He’s completely, utterly, seeing-red _furious_.

It takes every last bit of his willpower not to stalk out of the room then and there, but that would be poor form. He can’t have everyone thinking he would be that rude. So he stands there, nails digging into his palms, jaw clenched and trying to set Louis on fire with the sheer intensity and anger of his gaze.

Christ. They’re going to be touring together. For _eight months_. The thought almost makes him want to strangle himself with his mic cord. Or maybe strangle Louis, who’s singing _I might never be the hands you put your heart in_ , and Harry is positive he’s not imagining the smug tilt to his lips. He digs his nails harder into his skin.

The song comes to an end after what seems like an excruciatingly long time, Harry’s band applauding appreciatively. Harry joins in, forcing himself to relax.

“You guys are sick,” Jade praises.

Which...they are. Harry’s opinion on that hasn’t changed, despite the bomb drop of Louis and the way his blood is boiling right now. They sound incredible. He can’t begrudge all the effort it took to bring them on this tour, not when they’re this good.

“I’m glad you’re joining me on tour,” Harry tells them, smiling and not looking at Louis so at least he can be truthful. The pure, unadulterated happiness that shines from Niall’s face at the compliment at least soothes Harry somewhat.

Louis makes a noise that sounds like a derisive snort, just loud enough for Harry to catch, and Harry’s smile tightens. He’ll be the bigger man, though. He won’t give in to Louis’ childish behavior.

With that said, the rest of rehearsal passes by without incident. Harry manages to put a cap on the anger burning at his insides, bringing it down to a quiet simmer. He and Louis don’t speak much, and when they do, it’s cold, polite--strictly business. If anyone notices, they don’t say anything.

They call it quits around four, after two and a half hours of rehearsing, satisfied with their day’s work. Harry hangs back, helping his band pack up, Louis doing the same with Niall and Liam. To Harry’s relief, the latter three finish first.

“See you soon, Harry,” Niall says, coming over to pull him into a hug, like they’re good friends already. It’s endearing.

“Looking forward to touring with you, man,” Liam says earnestly, offering him a fistbump.

Louis gives him a forced smile that’s all pointy teeth and waves at him, barely even looking at him before heading towards the door.

Harry rolls his eyes. What a dick.

It’s not long before his band has all their stuff packed away. Outside, it’s still light, summer sun bright and unyielding from its seat in the sky. Harry slides his shades down from where they were resting on top of his head. He thinks he’ll grab some froyo before heading home.

He’s just hugged Jade, Josh, and Jon goodbye and is unlocking his car door when he sees Louis stalking towards him from across the parking lot. He groans internally. Fucking great.

 

\--

 

Those sunglasses look so stupid on Harry. They’re way too small for his face, Louis thinks vehemently as he approaches him. He comes to a stop and juts a finger at Harry.

“So what’s the deal, huh? Do you think this is funny?” he hisses. “What, are you stalking me now or something?”

Sunlight filters through the leaves of the tree they’re standing under and paints flecks of golden light on Harry’s face. Louis glares up at him, hating how much taller than him Harry is.

“Please,” Harry scoffs, folding his arms over his chest. His biceps bulge, the sleeves of his shirt shifting to reveal even more tattoos Louis’ never seen, and that only makes Louis angrier. “Get over yourself. I had no idea this was your band. A friend recommended you guys.”

Louis fights the urge to punch those stupid sunglasses right off his face. He balls his fist up at his side and says, voice dripping with disdain, “Right. A friend. So you had no idea about me. That’s very likely, Harry, please, tell me more.”

He can feel Harry glaring at him, even through the sunglasses. “If you don’t want to believe me, fine. But I didn’t know.” After a beat, he says, voice lower so that Louis has to lean in a bit closer to catch it, “I didn’t even know you sang.”

Louis clenches his jaw at that. “You don’t know a lot of things about me.”

“Clearly.” Harry’s posture is stiff, mouth a flat line, and Louis is suddenly grateful that he can’t see Harry’s eyes.

“Look,” Louis says tersely, “the only reason I’m doing this is for Liam and Niall. I don’t want to be here. Let’s just make that clear.”

“If I had known this was your band, I wouldn’t have even asked in the first place,” Harry bites back. “You should be grateful that I’m giving you this opportunity.”

Louis snorts derisively. He should be grateful? Harry’s really starting to piss him off with this pompous, egotistical bullshit. “Now who needs to get over himself, you spoiled, privileged little popstar?”

“Like you can talk,” Harry snaps, tugging at his cross necklace. “What the fuck was that in there?”

Bingo. Louis knew he’d struck a nerve, and though he does feel the tiniest twinge of guilt, he mostly feels twisted satisfaction at the fire in Harry’s voice. He says innocently, “What? You didn’t like our song?”

“You’re a fucking asshole.”

“You’re the one who asked  _my_ band to do this. So your judgments on my character don’t matter, do they?”

Harry shakes his head, the motion small and exasperated. “Whatever, Louis. Just go home.”

Louis turns around and stalks back to the van without answering, slamming the door and making Niall and Liam jump.

“Woah, dude,” Niall says. “You alright?”

“Fine,” Louis grits out.

Niall and Liam exchange a look.

Niall says, “Uh, dude, your eye is twitching.”

“He’s just such a prick!” Louis bursts out.

He’s met with confused looks.

“Who, Harry?” Liam says, frowning. “He was really nice.”

“He’s self-absorbed, egotistical, and fake, like every other goddamn celebrity.”

“Woah,” Niall says. “I knew you didn’t like his music, but I didn’t know you felt so strongly about the guy.”

“Maybe you should take it easy, Lou. We’re going to be touring with him for the next eight months. I’m sure once you get to know him better, your feelings will change.” Liam smiles at him reassuringly.

Louis grits his teeth and doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t tell them, doesn’t let the ugly truth come pouring out.

Maybe it’s because if he says it, he’ll have to remember.

He ends up staring out the window, the glass marred with dust and water stains, as Niall and Liam bicker over who’s driving (Niall loses and clambers into the driver’s seat with a grumble).

His head feels stuffed with stars, burning hot and bright. He had walked into that studio apprehensive and not quite sure what to expect, but the moment he’d seen Harry, standing there in ripped skinny jeans and a gaudy, floral-printed shirt that’s probably worth more than Louis’ entire wardrobe, all that had come to the surface was anger and a healthy dash of acrid resentment. Their conversation just now had only solidified that. Who does Harry think he is, acting like he’s all superior? Him and his ridiculously long hair. Which, admittedly, suits him well, but who cares? Nice hair does not a person maketh, or whatever.

Fame has obviously gone to his head, Louis thinks scathingly. Now that he’s some big-time star, he thinks he’s better than Louis. And he had the nerve to pretend as if he didn’t know Louis was going to be there. Just how stupid does he think Louis is?

But Louis had come. He’d agreed to the gig and he’d come. What does Harry think about that? God forbid he think Louis actually _wanted_ to see him. After all, it’s been three years of radio silence.

“You alright back there, Lou?” Niall’s voice cuts into his seething thoughts. “You’re being too quiet.” He twists around in his seat to look at Louis, even though he’s _driving_ , and Liam squawks loudly, grabbing the wheel and steadying the car.

Louis makes a noncommittal noise and says, “Fine,” before promptly returning to staring out the window and cursing Harry’s existence. He sighs and presses his cheek against the cool glass of the window, buildings passing by in a blur.

Liam and Niall, he reminds himself, looking at the backs of their heads up front. He’s doing this for them. He can deal with Harry. No problem. Harry’s nothing.

 

\--

 

Harry doesn’t go for froyo.

Harry sits in his Range Rover, eats a pack of trail mix, and seethes.

He can’t believe Louis. He can’t believe what a complete _ass_ he is.

He pops a raisin in his mouth and chews it angrily, so lost in stewing over Louis and his sharp mouth that the shrill ringing of his phone nearly makes him choke. Glancing at the caller ID, he groans. It’s Simon. Perfect.

Taking a deep breath and forcing his voice into something more polite than the screams he actually wants to let loose, he accepts the call. “Hello?”

“Harry. How did rehearsals go?”

There are a hundred different things Harry wants to say. He doesn’t say any of them. He settles on saying lamely, “Great. They’re really talented.”

“Good, good,” Simon says in a tone that makes it obvious he’s only half-paying attention. “So listen. These guys are newbies. They don’t know anything about what it’s like to be touring with a big-name artist. I need you to get lunch with them, somewhere public. Sit them down and tell them what’s expected of them.”

Harry balks. Get lunch? With _Louis_? Well, with all three of them, but the only thing Harry’s concerned about is the Louis part. “I--why?”

Simon sighs, impatient. “Having lunch with them will generate buzz for you and the tour. They’re all objectively good looking guys, it’ll get people talking. And they’re going to be associated with you, so they need to keep themselves in check. The last thing we need is them being stupid party animals with no notion of reputation. That’ll tarnish your image.”

Floundering, Harry says, “But I--”

“I’m not asking, Harry,” Simon cuts in. “You wanted these guys. Now take responsibility for them.”

He hangs up.

Well. This day just got worse.

Harry sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose and taking deep, calming breaths. This is fine. This is absolutely fine. He’ll have lunch with them tomorrow, and it will all be fine.

 

\--

 

It’s not fine.

They’re ten minutes into their lunch, seated in the outdoor area of a cafe in West Hollywood that celebrities often frequent, and Louis is yelling at a pap and making a scene.

“Can’t even have a fuckin’ burger without you nosy bastards hanging around, can I?” he blathers, oblivious to Harry’s death glare telling him to shut the fuck up right _now_. At least Liam looks embarrassed, too. Harry likes Liam. “Why don’t you take that camera and--”

“Sorry,” Harry cuts in, smiling apologetically at the pap and giving Louis a hard look when he rounds on him, no doubt about to start yelling at Harry instead. He’s insufferable. “He’s had a bad day. You’ll have to excuse his _terribly rude_ behavior.”

The pap shrugs, unbothered, flicking through photos on his camera. “All good, man. Got the shots already.”

Harry sighs and returns to his salad. At least there’s little chance this pap is going to be releasing the footage of Louis; he’s been hired by Harry’s PR team, with a very clear agenda. Harry can only hope no onlookers have their phones out.

“What the hell, Harry?” Louis demands as soon as the pap is gone.

“This is exactly what I’m talking about,” Harry hisses back. “You can’t act like that. It’s bad publicity.”

Louis snorts and pops a french fry into his mouth. “Publicity? Who cares?”

“You should! Especially if you’re trying to get more well-known. In this industry, it matters what people think about you.”

“So, what? I’m just supposed to sit here and let paps do whatever they want? Let them invade my privacy?”

Harry flattens his mouth in a thin line. “No, you ignore them and don’t act like an ass.”

“Same thing.”

Harry can feel a headache building already. “Look, I know it’s not right. But it’s just what you’re supposed to do. So stop fighting every damn thing and just listen to me, would you?”

“Right. Because you know everything.”

“No, because I’ve been through all this. I know how it works. Image is everything. I don’t have to like it, but it’s just how things are.”

“That’s so _weak_ ,” Louis says, crossing his arms. “You don’t do anything to fight back. You just sit back and allow things to happen the way they happen, let people step over you and control you. That’s so fucking weak.”

“It’s not weak,” Harry growls. “It’s survival.”

“Survival?” Louis scoffs. “Please. Sugarcoat it all you want, Harry, it’s still weak.”

“What do you know, anyway?” Harry snaps, irritated. “You don’t know what it’s like. You don’t know how it is for us--”

“Us?” Louis repeats, eyes narrowing. “Oh, okay. I see how it is. It’s ‘us’ and ‘them,’ is it? Well, you’re right, Harry. I don’t know what it’s like. I don’t know what it’s like to have everything handed to me on a silver fucking platter. I don’t know what it’s like to have swimming pools of cash instead of scrounging up enough money to pay rent every month and not starve. I’m just one of ‘them.’”

“That’s not what I--” Harry protests, indignant, because how dare Louis twist his words and make these kinds of accusations when he has no idea how much Harry wishes he didn’t have to maintain his image this strictly, when he wants to have more control over things but can’t.

“I don’t give a shit about what you meant. You made your intention very clear.” He stands up, scooting his chair back with a loud scrape and throwing his napkin on the table. “We’re leaving.”

He stalks off without a single glance at Niall and Liam.

Liam smiles uncertainly at Harry. His brown eyes are wide. “Er, sorry. Um. Wish we could stay, but Louis has the car keys.”

Harry waves a hand at him, brain still sluggish in its haze of anger. “It’s fine. Thank you for coming.”

Niall claps him on the shoulder. “See you around then, Harry.”

He and Liam wave before jogging after Louis, leaving Harry to stab viciously at his salad.

“Can I get you anything else, sir?” the waitress asks.

Harry gives her a tight-lipped smile. “Just the check, please.”

 

\--

 

The next day, social media and tabloids are buzzing about who the three handsome strangers dining with Harry are. Harry retweets a pap picture of them sitting together (as expected, no unfavorable pictures have been released), adds “Meet my new opening act, Dizzy November. H.” and turns his phone off for the rest of the day.

 

\--

 

“Dude,” Niall says. “Our Twitter just got like, three hundred more follows.”

Louis doesn’t look up from where he’s cramming a heap of t-shirts into his suitcase. “We don’t even use that thing.”

“We probably should,” Liam muses, plucking some shirts out of Louis’ hands and beginning to fold them. “Social media marketing, and all that.”

Louis rolls his eyes. Liam attends _one_ business seminar and he thinks he’s the master of marketing.

“What time’s our flight again?” Louis sprawls over his open suitcase, abandoning the articles of clothing still scattered on the floor. Liam’s doing a bang-up job of folding his shirts, he’s sure he can handle the rest.

“Eleven in the morning,” Liam tells him, placing neat squares of fabric into Louis’ suitcase. “I e-mailed you the itinerary, Louis. Twice.”

Louis flaps a hand at him. “You know I don’t check my e-mail.”

“I texted it to you, too.”

“Did you?” Louis pulls out his phone, scrolls through it. “Oh, that explains it. I think I still have you blocked.”

“What? You have me blocked? _Why_?”

“Because of that one time when you wouldn’t stop live-texting Duck Dynasty in our group chat. Niall blocked you too.”

Niall holds his hands up in surrender when Liam directs his pout at him. “Hey man, I’ve unblocked you since then.”

“There’s nothing sexier than the block option,” Louis sighs.

If only he could block Harry, too; block him out of his mind, out of his life.

He’s still pissed about the cafe debacle. Louis’ had enough of being put down for his financial state throughout his lifetime, and he won’t stand for that classist shit from anyone. He hadn’t expected Harry to be the type of person to stoop to that level, but he guesses he doesn’t really know Harry anymore. Time passes. People change.

The worst part is, there’s a small, niggling part at the back of his head that says maybe Harry’s right. Louis doesn’t know the life Harry lives. Harry’s always been richer, smarter, the Golden Boy. They’re closer than they’ve been in years, but they’ve never been further apart; they’re two different planets, their orbits never touching.

Liam throws a sock at his head, jerking him out of his brooding.

“I’m not going to pack your entire suitcase for you, Louis.”

Louis sits up slowly, picking the sock up and looking at Liam with a glint in his eye. Liam realizes too late. The sock hits him right in the mouth. Niall howls with laughter.

They devolve into a sock fight, turning to other articles of clothing when they run out of ammunition, until the room is a mess and they’re further from being done with packing than they’d been when they started, but they’re laughing and laughing and Louis is unspeakably glad that he’ll at least have his boys with him through everything.

 

\--

 

Harry grunts as he finally manages to zip his last suitcase all the way shut. He sighs, falling backwards on his ass and surveying the room, making sure he hasn’t forgotten anything.

“H,” his mom says. She waves his passport at him. “Forgetting something?”

Harry grins sheepishly as he takes it from her. “Thanks, Mom.”

She purses her lips at him, shaking her head. “What _ever_ will you do without me?”

Harry rolls his eyes but smiles. “Wither away and die, probably.”

His mom laughs. “Okay, drama queen, let’s get your luggage outside.”

Paul, Harry’s bodyguard/driver/saint on earth, is waiting outside with the car to take Harry to the airport. He loads the luggage into the car, refusing Harry’s attempts to help.

“Go talk to your mother,” he instructs. “I can handle a few suitcases.”

The instant Harry walks over, his mom wraps him in a tight hug.

“I’ll miss you, Mom,” Harry mumbles, mouth pressed against the top of her head.

“I’ll miss you too, baby.” She rubs circles into his back, the way she’s always done, and Harry holds on tighter.

“Everything okay?” his mom murmurs.

“Yeah,” Harry says softly.

His mom had found out about Louis. Of course she had, because even if Harry hadn’t given in and told her everything, she would have seen the pap pictures anyway. So he’d spilled it all, told her about how this Louis thing has gotten him all tied up in knots, and he hates it. He loves touring, loves playing shows, but that excitement has been dampened by constant thoughts of having to spend the better part of a year with Louis.

He doesn’t actually hate Louis. He doesn’t hate anyone, really.

But he does hate that Louis has come back into his life and dredged up all the fiery, ugly feelings that he’d thought he’d put behind him. He hates that he lets Louis bring out this side of him. He hates how much he hates, because Harry usually doesn’t make space in his life for hatred, and it’s fucking exhausting.

In his mom’s arms, though, all of that seems to melt away a bit, as fleeting as it is. He can’t stay like this forever, though, no matter how much he wishes he could, so he reluctantly pulls away. He’s got to get to the airport soon.

His mom puts a warm hand on his cheek, eyes soft and worried. “Take care of yourself, darling. I mean it. Call when you can.”

“Of course. Love you.”

“Love you too, H.”

They hug one more time, and then Harry’s climbing into the car, waving as they pull out of the driveway even though his mom can’t see it through the tinted glass.

The car flies down the highway, the sky almost navy through the dark windows, and this is always the hardest part, the inexplicable yet unavoidable melancholy of leaving.

His arrival at the airport is the usual pap-filled chaos it always is. Long accustomed to it, he keeps his head down and ignores their invasive questions, Paul close behind him as they stride through the terminal. It’s a relief when he makes it to security and through the gate, escaping the gunfire clicks of their shutters and their abrasive voices.

This kind of complete lack of privacy is the worst part of fame. They take pictures of him and make rumors about him and speculate about every detail of his life, throw his name around and splash it on headlines for cheap tricks. Like, he’s a _person_. Being famous doesn’t change that.

A few years of media training has taught him to be more desensitized to this sort of thing, to answer questions in a way that doesn’t propagate rumors and to not take anything too personally, so it doesn’t bother him nearly as much as before. But as he hands his boarding pass to the attendant standing by the gate, he can’t help but think of Louis’ words. _You let people step over you, control you_.

He shakes his head. Louis has no clue what he’s talking about.

A cheery flight attendant greets him when he boards the plane and shows him to his seat in the first class section. The seats are luxurious and have plenty of room for him to stretch his legs out, and he’s immediately offered drinks, which he politely refuses.

Despite his rollercoaster of emotions over the past few days, he can’t stop the buzz of excitement that runs through him as the plane takes off, the ground shrinking as they drift into the clouds.

Tour is beginning.

 

\--

 

The first show is at the Hearst Greek Theatre, by the Berkeley campus.

And isn’t that just fucking ironic. Louis swears all the bad karma he’s collected in life is coming back to bite him in the ass.

Louis gets off the plane cranky and the opposite of well-rested. He’d barely been able to sleep the night before, tossing and turning as the sky gradually lightened outside his window, only falling into fitful rest as the sun began peeking over the horizon. He’d then woken up late and packed the remainder of his belongings in a frenzy, snapping at Niall and Liam over the smallest things. In the chaos, he’d forgotten to charge his phone, and it died just before the plane took off, leaving him to fidget restlessly in his cramped coach seat for an hour and a half.

He really hates flying. It’s one of the reasons why he chose to go to Berkeley.

Thankfully, his mood manages to improve once they’re out of the airport, an Uber (paid for by Harry’s people, of course) driving them over to the Greek. The scenery that rushes by him is achingly familiar, and though he loves LA, he’s really missed Norcal. It’s home.

It’s a shame he actually won’t get to visit home. They’re on a tight schedule and have to get to Seattle for tomorrow’s show, something Louis had regretfully told his mom over the phone.

He hadn’t mentioned Harry to her.

He, Niall, and Liam get to the venue first. They’re doing soundcheck when Harry arrives, wearing a fur vest of all things. Louis bites back a snippy comment about it. Niall and Liam, on the other hand, greet Harry enthusiastically, gushing about how big the place is, and Louis has to swallow the unjustified sense of betrayal that thickens momentarily in his throat.

Louis’ wearing his old Berkeley t-shirt. A surge of vicious pleasure runs through him when Harry sees it, eyes freezing on the blue and gold logo.

“Nice shirt,” Harry says, mouth tight.

“Nice vest. Is it fake, or are you pro-cruelty now, too?”

Harry doesn’t grace him with an answer, just walks past him.

All things aside, the Greek is a beautiful venue. True to its name, the stage is classically Grecian in design, all pillars and stone and elaborately carved friezes, framed in trees backlit by the late afternoon sun. It’s big, too. It seems massive compared to the Bootleg; it could probably hold more people than all the venues Louis’ performed in combined.

Soundcheck flies by, and before Louis knows it, the sky has darkened, throwing the stone pillars into deep shadow. The doors will be opening soon, so everyone is backstage, hanging around while the crew and technicians make sure everything’s set up.

Well, most of them are hanging around. Harry’s sitting in a corner and drinking sparkling water--this, Louis laughs at, because really, how posh can you get--and steadfastly ignoring Louis.

Which is fine. It’s not like Louis wants to talk to him, anyway.

“Dude,” Niall says, stuffing a Dorito into his mouth. There’s a light dusting of radioactive orange cheese powder on his chin. “Can you believe we were playing the Bootleg like, two weeks ago, and now we’re here?”

It is pretty amazing. Despite everything, despite Harry, Louis can’t deny that. The only way they can go from here is up; playing to Harry’s crowds will give them more exposure than they could’ve ever hoped for. This is why Louis agreed to this, after all.

“Yeah,” Louis says to Niall, and then, pitching his voice a little louder, “before you know it, we’ll be annoying, stuck-up popstars, too."

When he takes a peek out of the corner of his eye, Harry’s expression is decidedly thunderous. Score one for Louis.

They all hear it when the seats begin filling up, voices echoing and expanding in the open air. The show doesn’t start for another hour, but as more and more voices filter in, Louis begins to get jittery with nerves. After all, they’re playing for over 8,000 people. 8,000 people who are here for Harry, not them. For most of those people, it will be the first time they hear of Dizzy November. Louis is hit with the pressure of it all, reality crashing into him like a tidal wave.

“Hey,” Niall says, settling a hand on Louis’ shoulder, solid and comforting. When Louis looks at him, he’s grinning, fist extended. “We’re gonna kill this.”

A grin breaks out over Louis’ face, too, as he and Liam meet Niall’s fist with their own. “Yeah. We are.”

The instant the lights go down, the cheering begins, swelling and expanding until Louis’ bones shake with it. They cling to each other for a long moment, he and Niall and Liam, and then they’re stepping into the deafening darkness of the opening that leads to the stage, Louis’ breath lying coiled and stagnant in his chest.

The breath escapes his mouth as soon as they step out onto the stage. It’s _massive_. The sheer amount of people is unbelievable, a sea of heads and blurry faces washed in the strobing blue lights on the stage. Like he’s underwater. Like he could drown.

It’s utterly terrifying and absolutely, completely exhilarating.

 _This_ , Louis thinks as he adjusts his in-ears and squints through a light that momentarily blinds him, body vibrating with energy, drinking in the crowd before him, _this_ is what he’s dreamed of.

The moment his fingers curl around the cool metal of his mic, everything falls away.

“Berkeley!” he yells. He’s immediately answered with a fresh wave of screams. “Thanks so much for coming out to see us tonight.”

“This is the biggest crowd we’ve ever had. There are so many of you here, Louis nearly pissed himself,” Niall says, laugh crackling through the speakers. Liam adds a rim shot on the drums. Laughter rolls through the venue. Louis flips both of them off, but he’s grinning.

“My bandmates are assholes. Maybe I should just go solo,” he says, and it’s absolutely intoxicating, the way the laughs and shouts of the crowd feed into his bloodstream like the best kind of narcotic.

“Please,” Niall scoffs with another one of his endless, booming laughs. “You’d be nowhere without us. I’m the one who keeps you fed, and Liam at least reminds you to do your fuckin’ laundry.”

So of course Louis uncaps his water bottle and squirts more than half of it all over Niall’s head (carefully avoiding splashing Niall’s guitar because he doesn’t actually want to die on stage in front of 8,000 people, thanks). This prompts a loud yell from Niall, pushing his now-drooping, waterlogged hair off his forehead as Louis skips back to the front of the stage, cackling and too quick to be subject to retaliation.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, folks,” Louis says into the mic, grinning impishly. “Now, Niall, if you’ve quite finished back-talking your elders, would you mind terribly if we get on with the show?”

Niall just rolls his eyes, though he’s grinning as he wipes the rest of the water off of his face with the hem of his tank, earning him more than a couple appreciative whoops as the action exposes his milky abs. Louis takes this as a yes. Flipping his fringe out of his eyes with practiced ease and pulling the mic off its stand, he yells, “Alright then! We’re Dizzy November, and this is _A Thousand Stars_!”

As Liam taps out the beat and Niall’s guitar hits the opening notes without a hitch, Louis shuts his eyes. Like this, he can feel every beat of his heart, its rhythm in tandem with the music that he knows better than the back of his hand. Time slows. His heart beats. He opens his eyes and sings.

It’s good. It’s better than good. Here, on the stage, in front of thousands of people, he feels fucking _powerful_ , every outburst from the crowd a pump of adrenaline in his blood. It’s easy to lose himself in it all, in the pounding music and the expansion and contraction of his lungs, his hand folded across his stomach like an anchor, tying him to this moment in time even as he floats blissfully through it. And it’s not perfect--there are moments where he becomes acutely aware of the number of eyes on him, where he hits the wrong note and he feels it like a stone in his stomach--but for every one of those moments, there are a hundred more cheers from the crowd that buoy him back up.

Because they’re here. They may not be here for him or Niall or Liam, but they’re _here_ and they’re listening to the music that flows from their rushing hearts. They’re here and they shout and dance and reach their fingers towards the stage, their skin washed in a chameleon of lights. Louis sings, and they listen. It’s more than he ever could have asked for.

It only gets better and better as the set progresses, Louis’ thin tank sticking to his back as he powers through the chorus of their third song with abandon. By the time he sings the last line of the last song, voice spinning through the open air like a hurricane, Louis is drenched in sweat, lightning in his veins.

“Thank you so much!” he shouts over the final reverberations of guitar and the roaring of the audience.

Liam’s voice adds to the chaos. “You guys were incredible!”

“Are you ready for Harry Styles?” Niall roars.

The crowd loses it. Louis feels their screams in his bones.

They walk off the stage in darkness, the crowd still a tidal wave of noise, their limbs glistening with sweat, Louis’ heart pumping feverishly behind his ribcage.

“That was amazing!” Liam yells, pulling in Niall and Louis with one arm each. “Lou, you sounded incredible.”

“Shut up,” Louis laughs, self-conscious, but he can’t stop smiling, feeling light enough to float away at any second.

Of course, Harry has to appear then and ruin it all.

“Great show, guys,” he says, smiling at Liam and Niall. Still ignoring Louis, then. Well, he can’t have that, can he?

“They loved us!” Louis sing-songs to Harry. “So you know what? You can shove your holier-than-thou attitude up your ass because _you_ should be the one feeling lucky to have an amazing opening act like us.”

“Very mature,” Harry fires back. “Tell me, do your big words make you feel not as tiny as you are?”

Louis’ smile fades in an instant, eyes narrowing. He did _not_ just insult Louis’ height. Not when he _knows_ how sensitive Louis is about it.

Unthinking, he says with a cold smirk, “Funny. You never seemed to mind my size.”

And that--he shouldn’t have said that. Harry’s entire body stiffens, expression freezing in place; Louis imagines he looks much the same.

Fuck.

They’ve both been tiptoeing around this, around the issue of _them_ ; as if neither of them said it, then somehow it wouldn’t feel as real, as raw. But now it’s out there, floating between them like winter air. Louis silently curses his big mouth.

Harry’s entire face seems to have shut down. He blinks at Louis, unmoving, mouth slightly open. Louis blinks back.

Niall’s voice breaks the frozen atmosphere. “Lou, can you help me with something? Over there?” He jerks his head to the opposite side of the room, and adds, “You too, Liam.”

Both grateful and apprehensive of the inevitable conversation awaiting him, Louis drops his gaze and follows Niall over.

“What the fuck, man,” Niall hisses, rounding on him.

“Wait,” Liam starts, brows furrowed in confusion. “What’s going on?”

“Yeah, Louis,” Niall says, crossing his arms, “what _is_ going on?”

“Erm,” Louis says. It’s awful, the way Niall’s cold stare makes him feel small, small, small. Guilt prickles at the back of his neck.

Still, though, it feels like something’s clawing its way out of his throat when he says, “I may have neglected to mention that Harry and I have a, uh. History. Of the romantic variety.”

Realization dawns on Liam.

“You used to _date Harry_?” He looks gobsmacked. “And--and you’re just telling us this now?”

Louis exhales and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I was hoping it wouldn’t come up.”

“So, what, you were just planning on never telling us?” Niall asks, and there’s still a hard edge to his usually unwaveringly cheery demeanor, and that’s how Louis knows he’s fucked up.

“I know it was wrong of me, I just…” Louis scrubs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t want it to be an issue.”

“Well, it clearly is.”

Louis swallows and looks at the floor. He doesn’t know how to, doesn’t want to, explain that it’s easier this way, safer, if the topic of him and Harry stays a shut door. He sighs, says tiredly, almost pleadingly, “Look, I’m sorry for not saying anything. I am. But can we not do this right now? I--”

He catches sight of Harry then, leaning in a corner and talking to Jade. He’s looking over at Louis, but quickly drops his gaze the moment their eyes meet.

Louis’ skin feels too tight for his body all of a sudden. Impulse taking over him, he says, the words nearly tripping over themselves on their way out of his mouth, “I gotta go, I told my mom I’d drop by to see her and the little ones.”

“Louis--” Niall starts, reaching for him, but Louis steps away, desperate to leave.

“I’ll see you guys at the hotel tonight,” he says, grabbing his backpack from the floor. “Bye.”

He doesn’t look at Niall or Liam, doesn’t want to see the expressions on their faces. He darts through the back entrance, ending up in the lot behind the venue. He waits there for his Uber, the summer night laced with just enough chill for him to wish he’d brought a jacket. His mom’s house in Oakland is only a 6 mile drive from here, so at least the Uber cost won’t suck him dry.

The app says his driver is four minutes away when the door swings open behind him. Louis steps away, narrowly avoiding being hit.

It’s Harry. Of course it’s fucking Harry.

He looks startled when he sees Louis and freezes, standing awkwardly half-in and half-out of the doorway.

“What are you doing back here?” It’s annoyingly accusatory.

Louis glances at his screen, itching to get away from here. Three minutes. “Leaving.”

“Why?”

“None of your business,” Louis snips. “Besides, I have no interest in listening to you singing your boring songs.”

Harry blinks, hurt crossing his features for a split second before a cold mask slips over his face. He says icily, “You do know we have to be in Seattle tomorrow, right?”

Louis rolls his eyes and heaves a sigh. He really cannot stand this pompous attitude. “Yes, Harry, I know. No need to get your panties in a twist. I’ll be back later tonight. Now run along, you’ve got a show to play, adoring fans waiting to coddle you and feed your ego and all that.”

Harry wordlessly turns and leaves, slamming the door shut behind him.

Louis is suddenly so tired. He sags against the wall, blinking at the night sky until his phone vibrates with a call from his Uber driver.

The car can’t seem to go fast enough. It’s only about a twenty minute drive, but Louis is impatient, itching to be in the familiarity of his house and smell his mom’s perfume and tease Lottie about her boyfriend and regain some sense of normalcy.

When the driver finally, finally pulls into the driveway, Louis all but bolts from the car, shouting a quick thank you before striding up the walkway to the front door. He rings the doorbell.

His mom opens it, and the second he sees her face, the tension that’s been stuck to his bones like resin melts away.

“Lou!” she cries, surprised and delighted. She immediately wraps him up in a hug. “I thought you said you weren’t going to make it?”

“I can’t stay for long,” he says, voice muffled as he squeezes her tight. “But I wanted to come.”

His mom pulls back and smiles at him, eyes warm. “I’m happy to see you, boo. The babies are sleeping already, but the girls will be glad you’re here.”

“Who is it, honey?” Dan’s voice sounds from the stairs before he comes into view. He grins when he sees Louis. “Louis! This is a pleasant surprise.”

Louis smiles and goes over to give him a hug, too. He’s not too close to Dan--his mom had only married him around two years ago--but he treats his mom the way she deserves and Louis has genuine respect and affection for him.

“Is that Louis?” It’s Lottie this time, closely followed by Fizzy, Daisy, and Phoebe.

Louis grins and holds his arms out, and is soon buried beneath a pile of his favorite girls.

“What are you doing here?” Lottie asks.

Louis ruffles her hair, and she bats his hand away with a roll of her eyes. “Just thought I’d drop by. I can’t stay the night, though.”

“Good,” Lottie sniffs, “Because Tommy’s coming over tomorrow and he said you scared the shit out of him last time.”

Louis cackles at that. “Did he really say that?”

Lottie glares at him, but there’s a smile tugging at her lips. “Yes. So go easy on him next time.”

“No promises, but I’ll try.”

Lottie punches his arm and then hugs him again.

Louis’ glad he came here. His mom heats up leftovers from dinner for him, and he scarfs it down, realizing how hungry he is. The food, his sisters, everything here just makes him feel at peace.

His mom squeezes his shoulder and drops into the seat next to him, smiling. “So how’s everything going, boo? You’re playing gigs again? I thought your tour was finished.”

“Yeah.” Louis dabs a bit of grease from his lips with a napkin. “It was, but like, we got a really good offer, so.” He shrugs and avoids his mom’s eyes, unwilling to broach the topic of Harry.

Of course, his mom sees right through him.

“Lou,” she says, brushing some hair out of his eyes. “I know there’s something you’re not telling me. And it’s up to you whether you want to tell me or not, but talking about it can help. I’m here for you, no matter what.”

Louis’ shoulders slump, overwhelmed with love for her. He says quietly, “I know, Mom. I just...I came here to get away from it all, you know? I promise I’ll tell you. Just not now.”

His mom nods, and Louis is infinitely grateful for how understanding she’s always been. “Take your time, babe. Whenever you’re ready.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Of course. I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

She gives him a warm smile and stands, taking his dirty plate and shooing him off when he protests that he can wash it. “Go play with your sisters. Enjoy your time home.”

Louis does as he’s told. He sits on the couch in the living room, lets Daisy and Phoebe climb all over him and chatter about every little thing, playfully argues with Lottie and Fizzy, and doesn’t think about Harry.

 

\--

 

Harry really needs to stop thinking about Louis.

The show had given him a chance to forget about everything, to just get lost in the screams and the music; he lives for performing, loves it more than anything. But once he’d stepped off the stage and the high had worn out, leaving him restless in his hotel room, everything had come rushing back.

He doesn’t get Louis. First he’s pretending they don’t know each other, then he’s airing out the fact that they used to be together. He’s just--he’s so much, always has been, and Harry knows he shouldn’t be so quick to rise to his jabs, but he can’t help it. There’s so much between them.

He sighs and flops down on the bed. He slides his phone out of his pocket, suddenly itching to talk to someone, and after some contemplation, he dials Zayn.

By some miracle, Zayn actually picks up.

“Hello?” There’s music in the background, low, and Zayn’s voice is slow and smokey.

“Hey, Z. What’s up?”

“Hey, man. Just chilling in the teepee. What about you? How’s the first day of tour going?”

Harry hesitates. The thing is, he’s never told Zayn about Louis; when he’d first met Zayn, it was still too painful of a topic, and as the years went by, Harry had very purposefully locked up everything to do with Louis in a cage and swallowed the key. He’s normally an open person, not one to guard anything, but Louis is the one thing he’s held in.

But that had been before, when Louis was nothing more than a technicolor memory. He can’t be tucked away in the corners of Harry’s mind, not anymore.

So Harry takes a deep breath and says, “Louis--the singer of Dizzy November--is my ex.”

Silence on the other line, and then: “You’re fucking with me.”

“I wish I were.”

“Shit. What’s that like, then?”

Harry huffs. “We’re awful to each other, Zayn. All we do is fight. I can’t believe I have to put up with him for the rest of this tour. I’m going to go crazy. I’m going to be all over the headlines one day because I’ve like, swallowed a cactus or something.”

A beat passes, and then Zayn says, “Wow. I’m sorry, H.”

Harry frowns. “What are you sorry for?”

“I’m the one who found them for you.”

“It’s not your fault, Zayn. You didn’t know.”

“Actually, um.” Zayn clears his throat. “I did kind of know. About Louis, I mean.”

Harry’s body goes rigid. “What?”

“It was at that after-party at The Nice Guy a while back. You were drunk out of your mind, man. You got all weepy at the end of the night, wouldn't let go of me, and you said something about how if you didn’t have all this, maybe you’d still have Louis. You didn’t say much else, but it wasn’t hard to figure out.”

Harry doesn’t say anything, and Zayn continues, rushing to fill the silence.

“I swear I didn’t mean for this to happen. Seeing Dizzy November was just a coincidence. And then I met Louis, and I wasn’t sure he was the same Louis, but I figured even if he was, maybe it wouldn’t be a bad thing for you to reunite with him, because it seemed like you missed him or something.”

Zayn’s talking fast, and more than he ever does--a state he only falls into when he’s either drunk or nervous--so Harry takes pity on him. He exhales, says, “I’m not mad at you, Zayn.”

“Oh.”

“I just--you could have mentioned it.”

“I thought you would’ve known. If it was Louis, I mean. Like, you would’ve said something. But you didn’t.”

Harry rubs at his forehead and laughs, short and dry. “This is so fucking weird. Like, how did this even happen? How did I not know?”

“Everything happens for a reason,” Zayn says in that serene tone of voice he’s taken to imparting advice in. Harry knew he shouldn’t have let Zayn get that teepee. All he does is smoke and meditate in that thing. He’s turning all Zen. Ha. Zen Zayn.

“I don’t know what to do,” Harry sighs. “I don’t think Louis knows, either. So all we do is yell at each other.”

“Sounds like you guys have unresolved issues.”

Harry laughs humorlessly. “Yeah. That’s one way to put it.”

There’s a pause, and then Zayn says, “Did you love him?”

The question catches Harry off guard, his traitorous heart lurching, but there’s nothing but honesty in his voice when he says, simply, “Yes.”

Zayn’s quiet for a moment. “Okay. I’m not going to force you to talk about what happened. But this is probably something the two of you need to sort out yourselves. Maybe all of this is more than a coincidence, you know? Maybe it’s a sign from the universe.”

“Are you high? You’re getting awfully metaphysical.”

“It’s the teepee, man.”

Harry snorts, a genuine grin growing on his face. “You’re an idiot. Thanks for listening, though.”

“‘Course. And I really am sorry that you’re like, stressed about this.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Love you. Best of luck with Louis. Call me whenever.”

“Thanks. Love you, too.”

Zayn hangs up, and once again, Harry is alone with the churning ocean of his thoughts.

He shakes his head, willing them away. He’s had a long day; he deserves some peace, from this endlessly complicated situation and from himself.

So he calls room service and orders a bottle of champagne, and once that arrives, he goes into the bathroom and sets it by the bathtub. He runs himself a bath, throws in some salts he’d packed in his bag, and relaxes, sipping champagne and letting silky steam and the relaxing scent of lavender curl around his body.

He thinks about the new cities he’ll visit, the sights he’ll see, the food he’ll try. He thinks about the crowds who will scream for him. He thinks about the gifts he’ll pick up for his family.

He thinks until he runs out of things to think about, and then, against his better judgment, he thinks about himself, drunk and sad and pining over what he’d lost with Louis, and how it now feels too quiet without Louis’ spitfire words and inflammatory presence.

Zayn had asked the wrong thing.

It’s not a question of if Harry ever loved Louis; it’s a question of if he ever stopped.

 

\--

 

Louis gets to the hotel at a little before midnight, skin still sticky with kisses from his mom and sisters. Liam had texted him the room number earlier, and he goes there, knocking on the door until it opens.

“I call having my own bed,” he sing-songs as he walks in, dropping his backpack on the floor. He peels his jacket off, throwing that on the floor, too, and then looks up and stops.

Niall and Liam are sitting on the edge of one of the beds, arms crossed, watching Louis expectantly. They look like parents waiting for their child who’s been out past curfew.

“Um,” Louis says. “What are you guys doing?”

“We need to talk,” Liam says.

“Have a seat.” Niall gestures to the other bed.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” He sits anyway. “So what’re we talking about?”

“We need to talk about Harry,” Niall says.

“No we don’t. Good talk, boys.” Louis stands, but Liam and Niall each grab one of his arms.

“Louis,” Niall says, serious. “We need to talk. You can’t just run away like you did earlier.”

Sighing, Louis sits back down, crossing his arms and looking at the wall.

“I know this is hard for you,” Liam says gently. “But we’re your best friends. We want to help you.”

“You can’t keep shutting us out,” Niall says.

“There’s not much to say,” Louis says tightly. “We dated. We broke up. Harry’s a dick. End of story.”

Liam frowns at him. “He’s not a bad guy, Louis. I know you two aren’t on good terms, but still. I have your back through everything, of course, but you should cut him some slack. I think you and him just need to talk.”

“Absolutely not,” Louis says automatically, cringing at just the thought of it. He’s very much determined to be bitter for the rest of his life, thank you. Then, the rest of Liam’s words catch up to him, and he bristles.

“What the fuck, Li? You’re taking his side?”

“No, I’m not! I already said I have your back,” Liam says, exasperated.

“You don’t even know what happened,” Louis says sourly.

“Because you won’t tell us anything!” Liam cries. “You didn’t even mention that you knew Harry, let alone dated him. You just bottled everything up and let it build, told us ‘not now,’ and then we have to sit here and try to pry it out of you. We’re supposed to be in this _together,_  Louis. We tried to give you your space, but it’s obvious that this is something we need to discuss. We want to help. And if you can’t even trust us enough to do that, then I don’t know what to say to you.”

And, well. Shit.

Hot, salty guilt instantly floods Louis, because Liam’s right. He’s been so caught up in the tornado of his own emotions, in letting loose on Harry and desperately trying to suppress the past, that he hasn’t stopped to take a breath, to let it all out. Too used to letting everything related to Harry storm silently behind his ribs, he’s shut out the two people he knows he can always count on to help bear his burdens.

He glances over at Niall, and his gaze is unwavering, eyes cold blue and expectant.

Louis bites his lip and looks down at his lap. He picks at the hem of his shirt. His heart is beating uncomfortably fast, pumping, pumping the words and the memories into his bloodstream, feeling raw with the things he’s held back for so long.

It’s with shaking hands that he opens his mouth and says quietly, “Harry and I met when he was a freshman at Berkeley and I was a sophomore. We started a band together."

And so he lets it all out. He recalls and releases everything he’s tried so hard to forget, everything he’s guarded in the hollow behind his ribcage. He breathes it into the hotel room until his chest is empty and his eyes are stinging and it hurts, it hurts so much, but it also feels _good_. It feels good to have Liam and Niall catch everything he spills.

He finishes, taking quivering breaths, and Liam and Niall pile onto him, sandwich him in a hug.

“Thanks for telling us, Lou,” Liam says softly, squeezing him.

“I haven’t told anyone any of that in years,” Louis whispers. He feels so vulnerable with his ghosts laid out in the room with them, but at the same time, he’s never felt safer, Liam and Niall a comforting and secure weight around him.

“You feel better, though?” Niall asks.

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

They’re quiet for a long moment, just hugging, the bonds of their friendship nearly tangible.

“You know, I get why you and Harry are ripping on each other all the time. You guys had a rough breakup. But yelling at each other won’t do shit. You and that curly bastard need to talk,” Niall tells him, gentle in the blunt, straightforward way only he possesses.

Louis shakes his head. “I don’t think I’m ready for that.”

“But you will be,” Liam says. “Someday, you will be. It’s okay if it’s not today, or tomorrow, or next month. But you need to let go and find closure eventually.”

Louis bites his lip and nods. On some level, he knows Liam and Niall are right. He and Harry need to talk.

But just the thought of it, of laying out his blood and guts in front of Harry, of facing their past head-on, makes Louis want to run far, far away. It used to be easier. When he and Harry were in the same city but galaxies apart from one another, Louis just stitched it shut, the part of his heart that ached with and for Harry. Then they’d come stumbling into contact again, and it was like a collision, like a meteor hitting them.

Louis wishes he were a star, light-years away from Earth and Harry and the tender bruise of what they used to be.

But bruises heal. Louis supposes they’re more like a scar.

“Think about it, Lou,” Niall says, and he’s all warmth and soft edges in the hotel lighting, and Louis swallows and focuses on the present, on the people that are with him.

“Thanks, guys,” he says softly.

“Don’t you ever pull this shit again,” Niall warns, and then he and Liam are on him again. They cuddle until Niall farts and Louis kicks him off the bed, laughing away the heaviness of the night.

 

\--

 

It’s raining in Seattle when they touch down.

How fitting, Louis thinks wryly as he gazes out the water-splattered window, waiting for the people in front of him to get off the plane; he’s in a crappy mood, the sky’s in a crappy mood.

As if flying weren’t bad enough by itself, their flight had been at the ungodly hour of 7 am, as all other flight times had been booked. At this rate, Louis doesn’t know when he’ll get to have a good night’s sleep.

He’d been up late last night after his talk with Liam and Niall, laying on his back and staring at the ceiling. As soon as the lights were off and Liam and Niall were breathing evenly in sleep, Louis’ mind had kicked back into overdrive. Something in him had shifted, had changed, and Louis couldn’t quite place his finger on it, but he felt it. By the time he’d finally fallen asleep, the sky had begun to lighten, and he was no closer to sorting things out than before.

Reassuringly, Niall isn’t faring much better. He’s nearly inhuman if he doesn’t get at least eight hours of sleep; his eyes are bloodshot and he’s called Liam a cunt three times already.

Louis’ faith in humanity is restored slightly when they finally get off the plane and Liam tells him that their hotel room is already booked (Louis neither knows nor cares who takes care of that sort of thing, that’s Liam’s forte). All he wants to do is go there and pass out until they have to leave for the show. Niall’s on the same wavelength.

Liam, however, has other ideas.

“I want to visit the Space Needle,” he declares while they’re riding the elevator up to their room.

“No,” Louis and Niall say at the same time, voices as lifeless as their sleep-deprived eyes.

Liam pouts. “I’ve always wanted to see it.”

Louis ignores him, already fantasizing about the pillows awaiting him as the elevator comes to a stop and the doors slide open.

And reveal Harry, sliding his keycard into the suite in front of the elevator.

He turns at the sound of the elevator’s ding. He’s wearing a loose white t-shirt, the material thin enough to reveal the dark lines of his tattoos underneath. His hair is up in a bun and he’s sweating, obviously having just worked out, summer-tanned skin glistening soft gold in the fluorescent lights.

Louis, in his sleep-addled state, allows himself to trail his eyes over the dip of his collarbone, the swell of his biceps, his long, bare legs.

“Oh! Good morning, Harry!” Liam chirps.

“Morning, Liam. Niall. Louis.” His eyes dart to Louis, and something flickers through their green depths, too quick for Louis to decipher.

“G’morning,” Louis forces himself to say, and there it is again: that flicker in Harry’s eyes.

Louis wants to leave already, wants to fall into bed and pass out, too tired to deal with the confusing mess of Harry, but Liam’s overly friendly personality gets in the way of that.

“Have you ever been to the Space Needle, Harry?” he asks conversationally.

Harry smiles without hesitance. “I’m actually heading there after I shower. I’ve always wanted to see it. I didn’t get a chance to last time I was here. If you want, you can come with.”

The invitation is clearly open to all of them. Harry’s always been so damn _polite_.

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about space or needles,” Niall says, snatching the key card out of Liam’s hand and heading towards their room.

Harry stares after him, bewilderment evident on his face.

“You’ll have to excuse him,” Liam says, grimacing. “He’s had an early morning.”

“He’s usually so _nice_.”

“Lack of sleep triggers the Irish blood in him, I guess.”

“Ah.”

“So, um, anyway,” Liam says, turning to Louis. “Louis? Do you want to go?”

Harry looks at Louis, too, and honestly, this is too much for this early in the morning.

“I’ll pass,” Louis mutters. “But you should go, Li.”

“Are you sure?” Liam asks. It’s clear in his eyes that he’ll do whatever Louis tells him to.

And hell, if Liam wants to go to the Space Needle, Louis would be a selfish prick to stop him just because of his own relationship drama with the man standing five feet away from him. Liam’s been nothing but good to him, better than Louis deserves, probably.

As nonchalantly as he can, despite the way his stomach clenches uncomfortably, he says, “You’re a big boy, Payno. Do what you want,” before following after Niall.

When he gets into the room, Niall is sprawled across one of the beds already, snoring loudly. Louis toes off his Vans and slips into the vacant bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, his head sinking into the plush pillow. He’s so exhausted that he doesn’t get the chance to dwell long on the thought of Liam and Harry alone together, sleep curling over him and pulling him under.

 

\--

 

The city sprawls before them in muted hues, the morning light washing pale and watery over the buildings and sticking to the lingering drops of rain that melt slowly from the railing of the observation deck.

It’s still early and the rain’s just stopped, so there’s barely anyone there besides Harry and Liam and Paul. The quietness of early morning settles around them like a shroud; Harry feels utterly at peace up here, gazing below him, close enough to the sky to feel infinite.

He snaps a picture of the view to post on Instagram later.

Next to him, Liam has his phone out too, taking picture after picture, the sharp snap of the shutter sound breaking the quiet. Harry smiles at the child-like wonder on his face.

“Thank you for coming, Liam,” he says.

Liam lowers his phone and grins at Harry. “‘Course.”

They lapse into silence again, staring out at the city.

“Hey, Harry?” Liam says, after a moment.

“Hmm?” Harry looks at him. His face is serious.

“I’m actually glad I have this chance to talk to you. I just wanted to say, like...whatever’s happening, whatever’s happened, with you and Louis...that’s between you two, you know? Just because you guys are working through some things and Louis is angry at you all the time doesn’t mean that me and Niall are going to be openly against you or anything. You know what I’m saying?”

It’s a bit clumsy in delivery, but Harry does understand the spirit of what Liam’s trying to say. He smiles appreciatively at him. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. Thank you.”

Liam smiles back. “Now that I’ve made that clear...Louis’ my best friend. I look out for him, no matter what. And Niall does, too. Louis made a personal sacrifice for us when he agreed to us opening for you. I don’t want to see him get hurt because of it.”

There’s a glint in Liam’s eyes, and suddenly, Harry knows that Liam knows.

“Liam,” Harry says. “You’re a good friend. But me and Louis, it’s...complicated. I don’t know what exactly he told you, but I promise I don’t want to hurt him. I never wanted to. But I don’t know how we’re ever going to completely fix things.”

Liam nods, slow, his eyes still on Harry. They’re thoughtful.

“You know, I dated this girl once in college. Her name was Danielle. She was smart and funny and beautiful, and we broke each other’s hearts.”

The candor of Liam’s words startle Harry. Carefully, he asks, “What happened?”

“She moved halfway across the world. Didn’t even tell me until the week before her flight. She said, ‘We can make this work, can’t we?’ Like she never expected anything else.” Liam shakes his head, gazing out at the pale sky. “I was so hurt that I didn’t even try to work things out with her. We just--ended it. Just like that. And to this day, I still think about how maybe if we’d just both taken the time to talk things through, it wouldn’t have turned out this way. Maybe we’d still be together.”

He looks back at Harry. There’s a small, rueful smile at the corners of his lips. “I can’t tell you what to do, Harry. And I know how stubborn Louis can be. But sometimes, talking changes everything.”

Harry stares back at him, stunned, at a loss for words.

“Harry?”

Harry and Liam both turn at the unexpected voice that breaks into the bubble that’s formed around them and their words. Next to Paul, there are two parents and a girl, no older than ten. Her dark eyes are wide.

Despite the gravity of his and Liam’s conversation, Harry automatically smiles. She’s adorable. “Yes, darling, that’s me.” He nods to Paul to let him know it’s okay for them to approach him.

The girl runs up to him and hugs him. He hugs back, asks, “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Jenny.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Jenny.”

He smiles at her parents, shakes their hands. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Are you enjoying Seattle?”

“We’re going to your show tonight, actually,” Jenny’s mom laughs. “It’s all Jenny’s been able to talk about.”

Her dad, a little timidly, asks, “Do you mind if we all take a picture together?”

“Of course not.”

They gather together, Jenny in the middle, and Paul takes the picture for them on Jenny’s mom’s phone. After a plethora of thank you’s and another hug from Jenny, the family is on their way.

Liam is giving him an indecipherable look when he turns back to him. Harry raises his brows questioningly. “What?”

Liam shakes his head, a smile growing. “You’re good with people. And kids. That’s all.”

Genuinely touched, Harry murmurs, “Thank you.”

It’s not until they’re riding the elevator back down the Needle that Liam brings up Louis again.

“Did you know?” he asks. “Before you asked us to open for you. Did you know about Louis?”

Harry shakes his head, rain-damp curls swaying with the movement. He leaves Zayn out of it, just says, “I really didn’t. I swear.”

“I thought so. Louis doesn’t believe it, but I could tell by your face when you saw him.”

Harry laughs dryly. “Yeah.” He bites his lip. “Look, about what you said earlier…thanks. For, you know, trusting me with that information.”

Liam shrugs. “It’s not about me, Harry.”

The elevator comes to a stop, the doors sliding open silently. They fall into step together, Paul leading them back to the car. It’s quiet between them, Harry lost in thought.

They’re nearly back to the hotel when Liam breaks the silence. “It’s weird, don’t you think? That out of all the bands out there, you ended up with us?”

 _Maybe it’s a sign from the universe_ , Zayn’s voice says in his head, and Harry says slowly, contemplative, “Yeah. Maybe it is.”

 

\--

 

When Louis wakes, it’s to anemic sunlight battling its way through the clouds and the smell of fried chicken.

“Hey,” Liam’s voice says, making its way through the fog of Louis’s sleep-heavy mind. “You awake?”

Louis grunts in response, sitting up and cracking his back, rubbing grit out of his eyes. His mouth has gone sour, and he’s starving.

“I brought us back some KFC,” Liam says, because he is an angel on Earth. That, and the man loves KFC. Despite his health nut tendencies, he’ll never say no to the Colonel.

“God bless you, Liam Payne,” Louis rasps.

He brushes the sleep-stale taste out of his mouth before grabbing the bucket of chicken from Liam and tearing in, fried, fatty, crispy deliciousness flooding his taste buds. On the other bed, Niall is still fast asleep, although the smell of food will probably soon rouse him.

It’s only once he’s chewing on his third drumstick that Louis remembers Liam’s little Space Needle adventure with Harry. His stomach instantly balls up, and he puts his piece of chicken down.

“So,” he says, swallowing and brushing some crumbs off his lips, trying to make his tone as casual as possible, “how was the Space Needle?”

Liam puts down his chicken as well. “Are you mad about that?”

“No,” Louis says, and it’s not exactly a lie.

“I didn’t mean to upset you or anything. I would have refused his offer if you wanted me to.”

“Christ, Liam, it’s okay. I’m not your parent, you don’t need my permission.”

“I know, but you’re my best friend, Lou. I don’t want to do anything that like, crosses any boundaries or anything. Besides, I, er.” Liam scratches his head sheepishly. “I kinda wanted to talk to him and defend your honor.”

Louis splutters out a laugh, all tension forgotten. “Oh my god, did you threaten him? At the top of the Space Needle?”

“No! I just...gave him some food for thought.”

Louis snorts, affection for this giant man-puppy welling up inside of him. “I love you, you know that?”

Liam grins, the last traces of worry melting from his face. “You too.”

“As sweet as this moment is,” Niall’s voice, thick with sleep, sounds from the bed, “one of you better bring me some of that chicken, or you’ll be loving each other’s dead bodies.”

Louis rolls his eyes and hands him a bucket of chicken.

 

\--

 

Wamu Theater is just as big as the Greek, but the second time around, it’s a lot less nerve-wracking. Louis craves the energy of the crowd, revels in it.

Their show goes well, even better than the first one; all three of them are a bit more confident. The crowd eats them up, clearly loves them, and they walk off the stage punchdrunk and happy.

“Great show,” Harry tells them, and just like before, his eyes linger on Louis, thoughtful.

Louis wonders, suddenly, what exactly he and Liam had talked about this morning, six hundred feet above the ground.

Backstage turns into a flurry of controlled chaos as crew members set up the stage for Harry's show. Louis sneaks away from Liam and Niall, finds himself at the back of the venue again, staring at the inky sky as he flicks his lighter and the tip of his cigarette glows cherry-red.

It's a bad habit, he knows, especially considering his career. He's nothing if not self-destructive, though, isn't he? Smoke some cigarettes, tour with Harry Styles.

"Are you going to do this every time, then?" a voice says from behind him, and he jumps.

Speak of the devil. Harry's standing by the back entrance, arms crossed, leaning against the door frame. He's changed his outfit, traded his striped tee for a short-sleeved button-up patterned with pink feathers. It's unbuttoned halfway down his chest, and for a moment, Louis can't tear his eyes away from the swallows curved around his collarbones.

He takes a drag of his cigarette, looks at the wall next to Harry. "Do what?"

"Leave."

"I'm not leaving."

Harry is silent. Louis takes another drag, watches the smoke dissipate in the night air.

"That's bad for you, you know."

Louis scoffs. Typical Harry. "Yeah, yeah, you leaf-eating hippie. What do you care, anyway?"

He senses movement, and then Harry's standing in front of him. His eyes bore into Louis, dark in the watery light coming from the streetlamps.

"Can I ask you something?"

Louis' stomach twists at the words. The beginnings of anxiety crawling up his throat, he says, "You just did."

"Do you hate me?"

Silence falls between them. Harry stares, and Louis stares back, thrown off-kilter at the straightforward question.

The thing is, two days ago, he would have said yes. Easy as that, vindictive and fiery, and it probably would've felt good, letting it burn his throat on its way out. Now, though, looking into Harry's serious face, looking at the furrow between his brows that could fit a thumb, the things Louis had told Liam and Niall earlier still lodged in his bloodstream, Louis can't.

So he swallows and says, "No. I don't."

Harry doesn't say anything, just keeps looking at him, and Louis can't stop himself from asking, "Do you?"

"No."

Harry's answer is automatic, and Louis releases a breath he hadn't even known he was holding. He drops his cigarette on the ground, grinds it into the dirty, cracked cement with the toe of his shoe.

"Louis," Harry says.

"Yeah?"

The space between them feels heavy, feels like the air before a thunderstorm. Louis has no idea what's happening right now, only that Harry is opening his mouth and shutting it again, and then he's walking away, stopping at the doorway and saying, "It's okay if you hate my music. I'm glad you don't hate me," before disappearing back inside.

Louis stares at the spot he'd been standing in. After a long moment, he lights another cigarette and slides to the floor, sitting with his back against the cool cement. Extricating his tangled headphones from his pocket, he plugs them into his phone and scrolls through his music. He settles on Brand New, _The Devil and God are Raging Inside Me_. He fills his chest with smoke and wonders if Harry would be the Devil or God.

Eventually, Liam and Niall find him, wrinkling their noses at the smoke that lingers around Louis like a halo.

Liam asks, “What are you doing back here?”

Louis plucks an earbud out, shrugs.

“I’m thinking about it,” is all he says before popping the earbud back in.

 

\--

 

The weeks fly by. Tour life is a whirlwind, nothing like Louis' previous experiences of driving around and snatching up gigs. It's a machine that never stops, city to city, state to state.

Louis still goes outside, to the back of venues, during Harry's performances. Sometimes he smokes. Sometimes he catches himself half-anticipating the door behind him opening.

But Harry doesn't meet him in the back again, and Louis is left sitting on the cold pavement and staring at the bottomless night sky, thinking about the way Harry had said his name and nothing else on that hazy Seattle night.

Regardless of what's happening with him and Harry--at this point, Louis can't give form to what lies between them--from a career perspective, things couldn't be brighter. Dizzy November has been steadily growing in popularity. They've generated a fair amount of buzz, and it shouldn't be as surprising as it is when they receive a request for an interview while they're in Vancouver.

Louis is crowded on a violently orange couch, Liam on one side and Niall on the other, trying not to fidget under the gleaming lenses of at least three cameras. Across from them, a woman with dark hair and shining teeth smiles at them.

One of the people behind the cameras makes a motion with his hand, presumably to indicate that he's rolling, and the interviewer turns her blinding smile towards him. "You've probably heard about these guys--and if not, where have you been?--but I'm here today with Dizzy November, the band who's been stirring up quite the fuss as the opening act for none other than Harry Styles."

She turns back to them. "How are you guys doing?"

"Great," Liam answers smoothly, all professionalism. "Thanks so much for having us."

"This is actually pretty scary, it's our first interview," Niall adds, laughing, unabashedly honest.

"It can be quite scary, can't it?" the interviewer agrees. "You've been on tour now for what, a month?"

"Yeah, about," Liam confirms.

"Do you feel any pressure from it all? I mean, opening for someone as big as Harry Styles has got to be nerve-wracking."

"Yeah, we all nearly shat our pants at the first show," Louis says. "The crowd was crazy. We're used to playing to like, two hundred people max. And suddenly there were thousands."

"You're getting used to it, though?"

"Getting there," Niall grins.

The interviewer laughs. "You guys have an interesting band name. What's the story behind that? Was that something you all came up with together?"

"To be quite honest, we just went to one of those band name generator sites and picked the least weird one," Louis tells her, grinning, and Liam and Niall laugh.

"Trust us, it was pretty hard to find one that wasn't awful," Niall adds.

"I'll take your word for it," the interviewer says with a laugh, and then glances at someone off-screen before turning back to them, full-watt smile turned on again.

"So. Let's talk about what all the fans are dying to know. What’s Harry Styles like? Is he really the ladies’ man he’s made out to be? Is it true he’s slept with over 400 people? Spill.” The interviewer steeples her fingers together and leans forward attentively.

The question sends flashes of irritation up Louis' spine, hot and abrasive, and before anyone else can say anything, he grits out, “With all due respect, I don’t think that’s any of your, or anyone else’s, business.”

There’s a moment of shocked silence, the interviewer sitting back in her seat, discomfort written clearly on her face. Somewhere to the side, someone whispers, “Cut that bit out.”

Liam's hand rubs against his back, and Louis relaxes slightly, though his blood is still boiling. Deep down, he knows it's not the interviewer's fault, knows that she's meant to ask certain questions, but it's not enough to stop him from regarding her coolly as she recovers and plasters a smile on again.

"So what's touring with Harry Styles like?" she asks, modifying her original question, and Louis' hands tighten in his lap.

The rest of the interview passes quickly enough, Liam taking the majority of the questions. When it's over, Louis shakes the interviewer's hand, and she holds onto him with slim fingers and says, "Sorry about what happened. I didn't mean any harm."

"I know. I get it." He offers her a smile, thin-lipped but not entirely fake.

It's with great relief that he steps out of the interview room, stretching out his limbs. He's no good at sitting still for so long.

"You did a good thing in there, dude," Niall says, clapping him on the back.

"Yeah, Lou. Way to go," Liam agrees, squeezing his shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah," Louis grumbles, his skin still feeling tight from it all. "I'm gonna go to the bathroom."

He heads off, despite having no clue where the bathroom is. He ends up accidentally doubling back, and just as he spots the restroom sign in the distance, he sees a familiar lanky figure. Great. Looks like Harry has an interview here, too.

They've barely talked since Seattle, not seeing each other outside of soundcheck and backstage at shows. Seeing him now, Louis is oddly nervous, the feeling tickling at his ribs.

He takes a deep breath and tries to skirt around Harry. Just as he's about to be in the clear, though, his phone chimes loudly. Harry turns at the sound, his eyes zeroing in on Louis.

Karma is  _such_ a bitch. Louis should start doing community service or something.

Maybe Harry won't say anything. Maybe Louis can just keep walking, like nothing happened.

"Wait, Louis," Harry says, and Louis squeezes his eyes shut. Damn it.

When he turns around, Harry's walking towards him.

“Hey,” Harry says once he's stopped in front of Louis, then bites his lip, but his eyes are green and sincere when he meets Louis’ gaze. “I, um. I heard what you said in your interview. And, um. You know. Thank you. Really. That means a lot.”

Louis resolutely fights the blush that’s threatening to rise in his cheeks. As nonchalantly as he can, he says, “Yeah, well. Just being a decent human being, aren’t I? Don’t think you’re special.”

It doesn’t come out nearly as sharp as Louis intends, and something like a smile edges on Harry’s mouth.

Louis walks away before his flush becomes too obvious.

 

\--

 

Their next show is in Arizona, and it’s at an arena.

For once, looking out at the rows and rows of empty seats that surround the stage, Louis is speechless. He’s miniscule, a speck, a man in front of a mountain. Next to him, Liam and Niall have their mouths open, gaping around them.

They’ve all been to an arena, but never would they have thought that they’d be playing in one, that they’d be the ones on the stage instead of in the audience. Louis feels a fresh wave of nerves crash into him.

During soundcheck, Louis is distracted, can’t stop imagining what it’ll be like with all those seats filled. All those people watching him, listening to his voice fill that giant space.

When eight o’clock rolls around and it’s their turn to take the stage, all three of them are visibly tense, the same thread of fear running through them unspoken but perfectly understood. Their group hug lasts just that bit longer, and they hold on to each other just that bit tighter, and then they’re walking out in front of over 18,000 people.

Louis wishes he could say that stepping onto that stage made everything fall away just like last night. But it doesn’t, and although his nerves ease, they don’t leave entirely, and it shows in his voice.

After they finish their first song, Niall checks up on him while Liam talks to the crowd.

“You good, Lou?” he asks lowly.

“Yeah,” Louis says. “Sorry. Just nervous.”

“We all are,” Niall answers. “But you have a great voice, man. You gotta show it to the world. Don’t be scared.”

Louis nods. “Thanks, Niall.”

He walks to the back of the stage to grab a bottle of water before they start their next song, and that’s when he sees him: Harry, shadowed backstage, watching.

Their eyes meet, and then, so briefly Louis almost thinks he hallucinates it, Harry flashes him a thumbs-up.

Suddenly, Louis is twenty again, clutching the polished body of his guitar, sweating under the lights of a coffee shop stage; he doesn’t look at the smattering of people in the audience, keeps his eyes on Harry, waits for him to turn around from where he’s standing at the front of the stage, hand white-knuckled around his microphone, and when he does, Louis lifts his hand, fingers curled and thumb jutting up.

It was their sign of reassurance, of comfort.

And Louis must really be fucked, because after three years, it still works.

The writhing ball of nerves in his stomach settle. He returns to the front of the stage with renewed confidence, blocking out the anxiety and freeing himself to feed off of the crowd’s energy. The rest of their set improves vastly, the exhilaration of playing to such a huge crowd sinking in as the nervous cloud hanging over the three of them dissipates.

They finish to an arena full of applause, and once backstage, Louis instantly looks around for Harry; he’s not sure what he would even say to him, but he looks, because he doesn’t know what else to do.

Harry, though, is nowhere to be seen.

Shrugging it off, Louis tunes back into Liam and Niall.

“You killed it, Lou,” Niall praises, throwing an arm around him and squeezing. “I knew you would.”

Louis grins. “It’s not so bad, is it? All those people?”

“I was about to shit my pants at first!” Liam laughs. “But after that first song, it was awesome. I still can’t believe we played to an _arena._ ”

“I know,” Louis says. “God, hold on, I have to send a pic to my mom, she’s going to poo herself.”

He peeks out from the side of the stage, taking a panorama picture of the sea of people filling the seats. He sends it off with an accompanying text that reads “!!” and then heads back to rejoin Niall and Liam.

It’s then that he sees Harry.

He’s sitting on the floor by himself, tucked away in the corner, made nearly invisible by the rush of the crew members backstage. He seems to be in a trance, eyes wide and glassy as he stares at nothing, hands fisted in the bottom of his t-shirt. His face is bone white, a sheen of sweat slicking his forehead, making a few curls stick to his temples. He looks petrified.

Louis stops thinking. He just _acts_.

He strides past Niall and Liam and and swallows the distance between them with long strides, making sure to snatch up a bottle of water first. When he gets to him, Harry doesn’t even look at him, doesn’t seem to register his presence. His breathing is shallow and shaky. Louis crouches down and puts a soothing hand on his back, rubs it in circles.

“Hey, hey. You’re okay,” he murmurs. “Do you need to throw up?”

Slowly, Harry nods.

“Let’s get you to the bathroom. Come on.”

It takes some effort, Harry’s limbs reluctant to move, but Louis manages to pull him over to the bathroom. It’s a small, one-toilet space, and Louis guides Harry over to the sink, hand never leaving Harry’s back. He knows it helps to maintain that point of contact, to keep Harry grounded.

Harry leans over the sink, knuckles white where they grip the cracked porcelain. He shudders, lurching forward, and Louis rushes to hold his hair back just in time for Harry to empty the contents of his stomach. The smell is sour and Louis wrinkles his nose, but he does his best to ignore it and grabs a paper towel from the dispenser by the sink and hands it over. Harry takes it with slightly trembling hands, swiping it over his mouth while Louis turns the faucet on and washes the vomit down the drain.

“Here,” he says to Harry, pressing the water bottle into his hand gently. “Rinse your mouth out and drink this.”

Harry obeys. He’s still pale as a sheet, but his eyes have started focusing; slowly, but surely, he comes back to himself. He lowers the water bottle and looks at the ground, fidgeting with his fingers. After a moment, he murmurs lowly, “Sorry. It hasn’t been that bad in a while.”

“Don’t apologize. Are you alright now? Better?”

Harry nods, eyes still fixed on the floor. He does look better, but his curls are drooping, and he seems so small.

“Thank you, Louis.”

He looks up then, and his face is so open and sincere, eyes wide and wet and vulnerable, looking just as young as the day Louis had met him, and something inside of Louis just collapses. It’s like a piece of him clicks into place, a jigsaw completed.

“Harry,” he breathes, and before his brain can catch up, he leans forward and kisses him.

It’s small and chaste and lasts barely a few seconds, Harry’s lips slack and slightly chapped against his, and then Louis realizes just exactly what he’s doing. He pulls back as if burned. Harry’s eyes are still open, astonished.

Louis needs to get out of there as fast as he can.

He backs away and pushes the door open before Harry can get a word out, nearly smacking into Jade as he walks out. She grabs his arm.

“Is Harry in there?” Concern floods her face.

“Yeah. He’s okay,” Louis tells her stiffly, and speed-walks away as soon as she drops his arm.

Instead of rejoining Niall and Liam, he goes outside, pacing in circles and lighting a cigarette with shaky fingers.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

His skin is buzzing, panic rising in his throat. What did he do? What did he _do_?

Liam and Niall find him not two minutes later.

“Hey, dude, what happened?” Niall asks, face creased with concern. “Are you okay?”

“I fucked up,” Louis says, frantic, taking a desperate suck of his cigarette.

"What's going on, Louis?" Liam puts a hand on his shoulder, searches his face with furrowed brows.

“I need to get out of here. Now.”

Liam nods. “I’ll see if Paul can arrange for us to go to the hotel." He disappears back inside.

“Louis. Lou. Breathe, okay? We’re gonna get out of here. Just...slow down for a second and breathe.” Niall holds him steady, makes him stop pacing.

Louis breathes, shakily.

“You’re gonna be okay, Lou."

Louis just breathes again, in and out, in and out. He'd dropped his cigarette at some point. 

Niall's hand is solid and warm against him, keeping him tethered even as he feels the world spinning away from him.

"Look, Lou, here’s Liam now. We’re going to the hotel, okay?”

Louis shuts his eyes and whispers, “Okay.”

The car ride to the hotel is quiet. Liam and Niall sit in the back with Louis, holding his hands until his breathing slows and he stops jiggling his knee. He crawls into bed and curls into himself the moment they get to their hotel room.

Liam and Niall sit on the bed with him. Liam puts a gentle hand on his arm, asks softly, “What happened?”

Louis takes a shuddering breath.

“I kissed him,” he whispers. “I kissed him, and nothing makes sense anymore.”

“Oh, Lou,” Niall murmurs, sympathetic and kind, and it just makes Louis want to cry.

“Get some rest,” Liam says. “We can talk in the morning.”

Louis nods, not trusting his voice.

Later, when Liam and Niall are snoring quietly and the moonlight sets the thin curtains aglow, the room all silver and dream-like, Louis stares at his fingers in the darkness and wonders how, for all the thinking he’s been doing, he never once considered that he might still be in love with Harry.

 

\--

 

The moment the lights on the stage turn off, throwing the venue into still-roaring darkness, Harry is running, in-ear still hanging around his neck, sweat still cooling on his skin. He scans the bustle of people backstage, but when that fails to turn up what he's looking for, he strides to the back entrance, pushes the door open with a pounding heart.

An empty lot greets him.

"Harry?"

He turns to see Paul, concern wrinkling his brow.

"Paul. Have you seen Louis?" he asks urgently.

"They left. Liam said Louis wasn't feeling well. I called them a car."

Harry slams a palm against the brick wall. It stings, the rough cement digging sharply into the tender skin, but it's a pain that brings vitriolic pleasure to the fire burning in his veins, because fuck Louis for leaving, fuck Louis for kissing him and running.

He shuts his eyes, hangs his head and takes deep breaths, trying to smooth out the quavers that bleed into every inhale and exhale.

He can still feel the ghost of Louis' lips on his.

And  _god_ , he wants to kiss him again, which only makes all of this worse.

"Harry? Are you alright?"

Paul's face is lined with worry, and Harry is abruptly overwhelmed with affection for him. Harry straightens up, runs a hand through his sweaty hair, composing himself.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. I just--I'd like to go to the hotel, please."

Paul nods.

Harry's hotel suite is huge and luxurious and far too empty. He assures Paul he'll be fine, and as soon as he's gone, he sits at the mini bar that overlooks the floor-to-ceiling windows and pours himself drinks until he's lost all track of time and his body is warm and the room doesn't feel half as big and lonely.

He burps, tasting an unidentifiable mix of alcohol, and blinks at the glow of his phone screen. The clock flashes 2:21 am at him.

Before he can even think about it, he's scrolling through his contacts, stopping once he gets to the L's.  _Louiiiis♥♥_ stares back at him, the red of the hearts bright and painful.

He'd never deleted his number. And doesn't that say something.

His thumb hovers over the name, the black text and those goddamn red hearts swimming in front of his eyes. He's thinking about kissing Louis again, and maybe that's what makes him bring his finger down on the call button.

The line rings. It rings again. And again. And again. And then it goes to voicemail.

Harry ends the call. He doesn't know what he'd expected; that Louis still has his number saved? That he'd call him and they'd hug it out?

He turns his phone off and slumps over on the bar. The marble is cold against his heated cheek, and his back aches enough already from sitting on the bar stool, but his eyelids are heavy, his limbs leaden with alcohol, and all at once, sleep overtakes him.

 

\--

 

Harry wakes up the next morning to a mercifully mild hangover and an aching, protesting back.

He'd relocated to the bed sometime in the middle of the night, but he still winces when he gets up, sharp pain shooting up the base of his spine. He hadn't showered last night, and he wrinkles his nose at the sticky sweat built up on his skin and the roots of his hair.

He swallows down an ibuprofen tablet and then clambers into the shower, the water hot and blissful, and applies an Icy Hot patch to his back once he's dried off.

It's only when he's padded back into the bedroom, towel slung around his waist, that he sees his phone on the bar and last night comes rushing back to him in a rapid stream.

Shit, he'd  _called_ him.

Heart jackrabbiting, he turns his phone on.

No missed calls. The only text messages are from Ed and Jade. An amalgamation of relief and disappointment seeps into him.

Shaking his head, he puts his phone back down on the bar and focuses on getting dressed. The next show isn't until tomorrow, but he knows he's got a flight in a couple of hours.

Sure enough, his phone buzzes with a text from Paul a few minutes after he finishes getting ready, asking if he's awake. He quickly taps out a reply as he slides his boots on.

Paul shows up to collect him soon after. As they're walking down the hallway, a door opens, and on instinct, Harry turns his head and looks behind him.

He's met with an eyeful of sleepy-eyed, messy-haired Louis.

His heart leaps into his throat, and he comes to a stop. Louis looks like a deer caught in headlights, freezing in his tracks and staring back at Harry.

"Paul, can you give me a moment?" Harry says, eyes still fixed on Louis.

"Sure," Paul replies, vaguely confused.

Harry closes the distance between them with unsteady steps. When he comes to a stop in front of Louis, he notices that there are smudges of purple under Louis' eyes.

Neither of them say anything for a long moment.

"Louis--" Harry starts.

"I need some time," Louis says, voice overlapping Harry's. He's not looking directly at Harry anymore, is fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt. "Some space."

Slowly, slowly, the words sink in. Harry nods, a bit numb. "Yeah, alright."

Louis' eyes flash up for a moment, blue meeting green, and then he turns away.

Harry watches him leave.

 

\--

 

Las Vegas.

The city is glimmering lights and the rich perfume of indulgence and lost inhibitions. There’s something in the air that makes Louis feel like he’s not quite himself, like reality has paused for a moment outside of the neon and the glittering glass buildings.

Maybe, just maybe, this is what makes Louis stay for Harry’s show for the first time.

It’s a decision he quickly regrets.

He’s seen Harry perform before, but he’s never seen him perform like _this_. Harry’s voice is a deep rasp, deeper than Louis remembers, and even the most inane, innocent lyric comes out sexier than it has any right to be. To make things worse, his stage persona is completely, ridiculously, mind-numbingly filthy. He grabs his crotch, moans into the microphone, grinds on thin air; he makes the atmosphere electric, his presence overwhelming and larger than life.

It’s mesmerizing.

It’s desperately, unthinkably hot.

Louis feels heat rising in him by the second from his spot at the side of the stage. He gulps at his bottle of water, trying not to stare at the way Harry’s broad back stretches the shoulders of his shirt, which is black and sheer and very distracting.

But then Harry’s bouncing over to the side of the stage Louis’ standing, hair wild, eyes glinting in the stage lights, head tipping back in an extended note, the milky curve of his neck gleaming gold and stardust, and his crotch is nearly eye-level with Louis, and Louis almost crushes his water bottle in his fist.

He wants to move, wants to run to the bathroom and splash water on his face or flush himself down the toilet, but his body stays resolutely rooted to where he stands, his eyes unable to leave the force of nature that is Harry on stage. Harry’s facing away from him now, jeans molded to the swell of his ass, which is a lot more toned and pronounced than Louis remembers.

But what Louis _does_ remember is the way that ass had felt in his hands, his fingers digging into the cream of that tender flesh; the way Harry would laugh into his mouth and say “Your hands are so tiny, babe”; the way he’d bite Harry’s lip in retaliation and say, “You know what they say about small hands.”

It’s that memory that snaps Louis out of it.

He finally manages to make himself move, to drag his feet backstage and stand by the door the crew uses to move stuff in and out. He lights a cigarette with slightly shaky fingers, holding the smoke in until his throat starts to burn and then blowing it outside.

Harry’s voice echoes loud and clear backstage. He’s talking to the crowd, their cheers nearly drowning out his voice after the end of every sentence.

Louis wonders how many people Harry’s been with since they broke up. How many people he’s put on a show for, how many people know the way his thighs shake and the almost-pained look he gets when he’s about to come.

Louis shakes his head, takes another puff of his cigarette. This is fucking pathetic, isn’t it? Lurking backstage, horny and jealous over the boy who’d broken his heart, the boy he's spent the past week avoiding like the plague.

 _I need some time_ , he'd told Harry, but he's not going to lie to himself; he knows that was just an excuse. He's just scared.

Harry sings one last song and then it’s over, Louis stubbing out his cigarette and rejoining Liam and Niall, watching as the stage goes dark, lifeless without Harry’s presence.

“You good?” Liam asks Louis once the chaotic noise of the crowd has died down somewhat.

Louis shrugs. “Fine.”

“Yeah?” Liam says, watching him carefully.

“Yeah.”

“It’s good that you stayed.”

Louis doesn’t say anything to that.

They’ve just finished packing up their things when Harry descends upon them like a hurricane, eyes bright and cheeks rosy, yelling, “I’m paying for all our drinks tonight! Vegas, baby!”

His curls are loose and wild, sticking to his sweaty temples, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, and he’s radiant and too much, and Louis wants him so bad it almost hurts.

He really needs those free drinks.

 

\--

 

The Cosmopolitan is rose and gold and glimmering lights. Rows of crystal beads drip from the ceiling, set aglow by the pale purple-pink light that reflects in the polished floors and washes everything in an ethereal, hazy luminescence. The air is heavy with the scent of cigarette smoke and the sound of the slot machines clinking and beeping.

Harry has changed into a ratty Rolling Stones shirt and jeans that have seen better days, his usual boots traded in for a pair of flip flops, his hair tied up and tucked under a baseball cap. Jade had snickered at this attempt to be incognito, but it seems to be working well enough, no onegiving him a second look as their group passes through.

Jon and Josh hit the poker tables while the rest of them head to the bar, Harry opening a tab. Jade, stunning as usual in a drapey black dress that flows off her back, is almost instantly caught up in flirtatious chatter and drink offers. She waves them all off, though, turning to Harry and wrinkling her nose.

“Hate it when men think I’m straight,” she sighs as they grab the drinks they ordered and sit down on one of the several plush sofas that are dotted throughout the bar.

“I know the feeling,” Harry intones.

“I miss Pez,” Jade pouts. “It feels like ages since I’ve seen her.”

“We’ll be back in LA in two weeks, babe,” Harry says comfortingly.

“I know. It seems so far away, though.” She appraises Harry, a glint in her eye. “Speaking of relationships...what’s with you and Louis?”

Harry is suddenly very interested in his drink. “What do you mean?”

Jade rolls her eyes. “Oh, come on. I mean he’s your ex and he unexpectedly came back into your life, and you’re mean to each other because you’re both still bitter about the breakup, only then you realized you still have feelings for him. Am I wrong?”

Harry gapes at her. “How…”

Jade smirks and taps her temple with a manicured finger. “Girls know everything, Harry.”

He won’t argue with that. He sighs, says, “It’s just...complicated.”

“Go on, then. Tell me.”

“We, um. We have a lot of leftover baggage from the breakup, like you said. And then, a few weeks ago, that time when I got really bad stage fright, he kissed me. And like, he asked me to give him some time, but it's obvious he's avoiding me.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you want to get back together with him?”

Harry trails his finger down the condensation collecting on his glass. His voice is quiet when he says, “I never wanted us to break up in the first place.”

Jade is silent for a bit, and then she sets her drink down, ice cubes clinking. She grabs his shoulder, looks into his eyes. “Then _talk to him_ , Harry. You can’t just sit around and wish for things to change when you’re capable of _making_ that change. It's obvious that Louis is scared, and if he won’t make the first move, you need to.”

Harry frowns. “I don’t know, Jade. I mean, I'm scared too, you know? What if we’re not ready? We can’t--I don’t know if I can handle getting my heart broken again.”

“I know you’re scared. But small steps, yeah? Talk to him first. Sort your shit out. Then decide what you’re ready for.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, nodding slowly, because he’s thinking of Louis’ lips and Louis’ hands and how even the moon and the sun align sometimes. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m going to talk to him. Just...not tonight?” He lifts his glass and raises an eyebrow. “When in Vegas…”

Jade snorts. “Wrong saying, but fair enough.”

She raises her glass and taps it against his, and they drink to the night that stretches before them.

 

Four shots and a lot of drunken giggling later, Jade burps into her hand and says, “Think I’m done for the night. Everything’s gone all topsy turvy!”

“Want me to walk you to your room?”

Jade flaps her hand at him. “No, no. I’ll be fine. I’ve got perfectly functioning legs. Gimme a hug, then.”

Harry obliges, her body small and warm against his, her hair sweet-smelling. She smacks a kiss to his cheek and pulls away.

“Nighty night, Harry.”

“Night, Jade.”

He watches her walk off, impressively steady in her heels. When he turns back around, he spots Jon and Josh, and is about to join them when he sees Louis.

He’s standing at the bar, talking to a tall, dark-haired man, and he’s in his flirting pose, hip cocked and head tilted.

Stomach churning in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol he’s been consuming, Harry turns back around and walks out of the bar.

He ends up sitting at a dollar slot, feeding it bill after bill, staring with unfocused eyes as he pulls the lever and images of cherries and bold black numbers swim hazily in front of his eyes. He’s not really paying attention; the only thing he can think about is the sight of Louis and that man.

“Excuse me?” a voice says to his right, breaking through his daze.

Two young women stand before him, their eyes widening when he looks at them. The one on the right, who’s wearing a gorgeous blouse that Harry is almost sure is from YSL’s spring collection, squeezes the other’s arm, says, “I told you it was him!”

“I am him. Hello,” Harry says, waving clumsily.

“Hi,” the one in YSL says, a little breathlessly. “Um. We’re so sorry to bother you, but could we get a picture?”

“Sure, sure.” Harry waves them over, smiles at them and at the camera, throwing up a peace sign. The shutter clicks.

“Thank you,” they both squeak out, and the genuine joy on their faces makes Harry smile.

“Of course,” he tells them. “Pleasure meeting you lovely ladies. Enjoy your night, alright?”

“We will. Bye, Harry,” YSL says, and with one last glance, the two are gone, leaving behind a wisp of giggles and flowery perfume.

Harry turns back to his slot machine. He hasn’t won anything.

He cashes out, pocketing the ticket for later. The shots have made their way into his bladder, and taking a piss seems like the most dire mission in the world right now.

Luckily, it doesn’t take him long to spot the glowing sign of the bathroom. He scurries over as fast as his unsteady legs can take him, a sense of bliss overtaking him as he empties his bladder. He zips up, washes his hands with too much soap, and heads out the door, ready to retire to his room since his head is now spinning enough to be unpleasant and he has no desire to stick around and watch Louis flirt with strangers.

He doesn’t make it far, however, because standing by the entrance to the bathroom, smoking a cigarette, is the man in question.

Harry nearly runs into him, wobbly as he is, and as a result, ends up much closer to him than he’d intended.

Louis’ hair is mussed and his eyes are glassy, color blooming radiant in the high points of his cheekbones; he smells heavily of tequila and lime and sweat, all mixed in with the acrid scent of smoke. He’s gorgeous, always has been, and after weeks of looking at him from afar, it’s enough to make Harry lose his breath.

Louis blinks at him, startled, reaching a hand out to steady him and then quickly dropping it.

Suddenly, Harry’s sick of the space between them. He’s sick of waiting, of being afraid, of reaching out for stars but flinching back so his palms don’t get burned.

He finds Louis’ eyes, says, “You drive me crazy, you know that?”

Louis stares at him, expression indecipherable. He’s edged in rosy light, his sharp angles made softer by the alcohol, and Harry can’t quite stop looking at him.

When moments pass and Louis still doesn’t say anything, Harry murmurs, “That day in Arizona, I wanted you to kiss me again.”

“Harry,” Louis says, and bites his lip. There’s a warning note in his voice, but it’s weak.

“You drive me crazy,” Harry says again, voice low. He’s unconsciously stepped closer to Louis; he hears it when Louis’ breath hitches. He nearly has Louis backed up against the wall now.

“Louis,” he says. “Do you still want to kiss me?”

“I…” Louis trails off, his eyes stuck on Harry’s lips.

Harry reaches out then, curls his fingers gently around Louis’ arm, right over the tattooed heart. Louis’ bicep is smooth and wonderfully firm, muscle where there used to be none, but Harry’s fingers still wrap around it completely. He can’t resist pressing his thumb into it, just the tiniest bit.

He watches Louis. He doesn’t shake off Harry; he stares at Harry’s hand on his arm, eyes dark in the dim casino lighting.

“Let go of me,” he says, his voice a low rasp.

Harry lets go. Louis doesn’t move.

“I couldn’t stand seeing you flirting with that guy,” Harry confesses, voice low now, matching Louis’. He steps a fraction of an inch closer, and Louis still doesn’t move, just looks at Harry from under his lashes as his cigarette burns away in his hand, forgotten.

At that, a smirk curls over Louis’ lips; he loves having the upper hand. “Is that so?”

“It is so.” Harry takes another step, close enough that Louis has to look up at him, light catching on the tips of his eyelashes.

“Stop getting so close, you creep.”

Harry swipes his tongue over his lower lip. “I’ll stop if you want me to.”

He sees it, the moment the fight goes out of Louis; his eyes flutter closed, and Harry meets him halfway, their lips crashing together.

This kiss is nothing like the one in Arizona. This kiss is fevered, passionate; there’s hunger behind it, a sense of urgency. They fall into each other like ink bleeding into paper, breathing in the scent of smoke and tequila and each other, mouths meeting in slick, tangy tandem.

When they finally part, panting and flushed, Harry murmurs, “Not here. Let’s go to my room.”

“Yeah,” Louis says, breathy, dazed.

They stumble to the elevators together, and Harry jabs at the buttons, willing it to go faster. Louis is plastered to him, sucking hot kisses into his neck, every touch of his lips burning like miniature suns, and it feels like an eternity before the elevator glides to a stop and the doors open to the 28th floor.

Skin never leaves skin as they make their way down the hallway, uncoordinated and like a fire’s chasing them, like a fire’s in their stomachs. Harry fumbles to get the door to his room open, and when he finally does, they immediately collapse onto the bed, tearing at each other’s clothes, frantic and wanting, wanting, wanting.

“You look so fucking good,” Harry groans once he’s peeled Louis’ shirt off, running his hands reverently down Louis’ sides, biting at the soft flesh of his stomach as he lays between his legs and unzips his jeans. Louis gasps when Harry’s hand presses over the bulge thinly concealed by the black material of his boxers.

“Can I blow you?” Harry murmurs, voice rough and low, and Louis nods.

Harry pulls Louis’ boxers off, leaving them crumpled on the floor, and presses kisses to the tip of Louis’ cock, gentle and slow, drawing hisses and loud breaths from Louis. He waits until Louis slides a hand into his hair, tells him to _do it already_ , and then he fits his mouth over as much of Louis’ length as he can, curling his tongue over the weight of it. Louis gasps, fingers clenching at his curls and tugging, and Harry lets out a low moan in response, every part of his body feeling like lightning.

Harry works his mouth over Louis’ cock until Louis is arching off the bed, thighs shaking like an earthquake, and then he pulls off, crawling up to kiss Louis with saliva-slick lips.

“Tell me what you want,” Harry whispers into his mouth. “Please. Anything.”

“Fuck me.”

Harry nearly comes then and there. He gives Louis a bruising kiss before rolling off of him to rummage frantically through his bag, emerging with a travel-size bottle of lube and a condom. He returns to the bed, plies Louis’ lips open with his own, presses one finger into Louis, then two. High-pitched cries fall out of Louis’ parted lips as Harry thrusts his fingers into him, loud as he’s always been, and Harry picks them up, collects them in the hollow of his mouth and under his tongue.

“Come on already,” Louis says raggedly, tugging at Harry’s hair. “Fuck me.”

Harry whimpers, helplessly turned on with every command. He retracts his fingers and rolls on the condom swiftly, eager to obey Louis, to please him.

He pushes into Louis slowly, carefully, both of them groaning at the sensation. Harry waits a little, lets Louis get used to the stretch, and then starts moving, Louis’ legs bracketed around his hips.

Like this, Harry can look at Louis, drink him in. Louis is gold and cerulean, the caramel of his skin rich against the white of the sheets. The warm hotel lights catch on his hair like a halo and soften the edges of his face, making him glow. He could almost be Apollo like this, gleaming golden and bright and enough to burn, if it were not for the mortal way in which he clutches at Harry and spills his cries into Harry’s hungry, willing mouth.

Harry rocks his hips faster, the mattress shaking beneath them, and Louis throws his head back, a whine tearing its way out his throat.

“Fuck, Harry,” he gasps out. “You were so sexy on stage today, so dirty. It got me so hot. All I could think about was you, us, like this.”

At this, Harry stops, gaping down at Louis. “You stayed?”

“Keep _moving_.”

“You stayed.”

“Yes, I fucking stayed, now would you please keep fucking me?”

Harry picks up the pace again, tucking a wide smile into Louis’ neck as Louis moans.

“I would’ve put on even more of a show if I knew you were watching,” Harry breathes. He moves his mouth down, sucks a bruise into Louis’ collarbone, a claim on the skin that was already once his.

“Faster,” Louis keens. “Faster, Harry, fuck.”

Harry obeys, his own orgasm coiling in him with every thrust, but he doesn’t give in to it, not yet.

“Can I come, Louis?” he gasps. “Please--”

“Yes, yes you can come--fuck--”

Harry’s eyes clench shut and his vision swims, legs shaking as his body pulses with the force of his orgasm. Louis’ fingers clutch at his back, surely leaving half-moons on the tender skin, and follows close behind.

Harry collapses on top of Louis, their chests heaving together, heartbeats wild. Eventually, Louis pushes Harry off, and he snuggles into his pillow, exhausted and inches away from sleep.

“Tomorrow,” he mumbles, half to himself. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

But Louis has fallen asleep already, and Harry isn’t far behind.

 

\--

 

The cheerful sound of the Marimba ringtone wakes Louis up and throws him directly into hangover hell.

“Make it stop,” he groans, weakly clutching the pillow over his ears. His head is throbbing as if it’s been used as a kickdrum, and his tongue feels too big for his mouth.

Thankfully, the phone stops ringing a few seconds later, though that does nothing to alleviate Louis’ miserable state. Keeping his eyes squeezed closed--sunlight is definitely something he’s not ready to deal with--he curls back into the pleasant warmth pressed against his chest.

The heat source moves, the bed sheets rustling, and Louis hears a sleepy, unintelligible murmur. At that, he cracks open an eye and is met with a nest of brown curls and a broad, bare back with a distinctive constellation of moles near the spine.

Oh, _shit_.

He instantly scoots back, wincing as the movement sends another pang through his head, because what the fuck, that’s _Harry_. He’s in bed with Harry. His worst fears are confirmed when he registers his naked state.

Harry stirs again, the sheets slipping further down his back and exposing the dimples above his ass, and Louis prays, prays, prays that he won’t wake up. This is still fixable. He can sneak out and pretend this never happened and he’ll go back to avoiding Harry and Harry will never know. It’s the perfect plan.

Quietly as he can, he slips out of the bed, nearly falling over as vertigo hits him. Once it passes, he hunts for his underwear, silently cursing his hangover for making things more difficult than they already are.

Marimba starts again.

 _Shit_. Where the hell is his underwear?

The sheets start rustling again, and Louis finally locates his underwear, flung over a lamp. He hurriedly pulls it on. The fabric feels gross, but then again, his entire body feels gross. There’s still a bit of cum on his stomach.

“Louis?”

Fuck.

“Louis, wait,” Harry says, sitting up in bed. His voice is thick with sleep. “Don’t go.”

“This,” Louis says, picking up and dropping a shirt that is definitely not his, “was a terrible mistake, and I’m leaving now.”

Harry scrambles out of bed and stands in front of Louis, blocking his path. “We need to talk.”

Marimba is _still_ playing. “Pick up your fucking phone. It’s annoying.”

Harry doesn’t move. “Not until you agree we can talk.”

And damn it, there’s panic clogging his throat and the urge to run itches, but Harry’s soft and sleepy and there are creases from the pillow on his face, and Louis feels it again, that thing inside him collapsing.

“Fine. But I’m going to take a shower first.”

Harry offers him a grateful smile, and it’s ridiculous how the pull of lips over teeth and a dimple deep enough to hold an ocean is so lovely that Louis has to turn away.

He walks into the bathroom, sunlight pouring through wide windows and throwing long bars of buttery light over the marble floor. Everything in here is gold and porcelain, delicate and luxurious; all sunlit like this, it feels like a dream.

The shower is architectural glass, big enough to fit several people, and the water pressure is heavenly on Louis’ back. He massages shampoo into his hair, watches the suds swirl and disappear down the drain, and tries not to shake at the thought of the conversation waiting for him on the other side of the wall.

So they’d had sex. Louis can’t exactly say he’s surprised--they’d been drunk, and it’s _Harry_ , and after last night’s performance, Louis had trouble thinking about anything else but the rose petals of his lips and the sacrilegious space between the curves of his thighs--but he’s ventured into dangerous territory. If Arizona was him getting too close, then this is him falling over the fucking edge.

He spends more time in the shower than necessary; he’s stalling, and he knows it. Finally, though, when he’s run out of body parts to wash and is just wasting water, he shuts the water off and dries himself with one of the many fluffy towels stacked by the sink.

He realizes too late that he doesn’t have a change of clothes. Now that he’s clean, skin shower-warm and emanating the sweet citrus scent of body wash, he can’t bear to step into last night’s boxers again. He’s hardly going to ask Harry for clothes, though. That’s a step he’s definitely not going to take, not right now, when everything’s gossamer and fragile between them.

As it turns out, he needn't have worried--when he goes through the entryway that separates the shower from the sink and toilet, there's a neat stack of clothes waiting for him atop the marble counter top. Something sticks in his throat, and he swallows.

Slowly, he picks up the first item: a pair of Nike athletic shorts. They look brand new, and when Louis slips into them, the waistband is a bit big.

The second item is a plain black t-shirt, soft and worn. Before he can give it too much thought, Louis slides it on, the fabric hanging loosely around his frame and the hem reaching mid-thigh. It smells like laundry detergent and nothing else, and for a moment, Louis is disappointed.

When he finally emerges, hair still dripping beads of water down his back, tugging nervously at the t-shirt, Harry is sitting on the bed, staring at his phone.

His head snaps up when he senses Louis standing there, and the serious expression on his face takes Louis off guard.

“Louis,” he says. “You need to see this.”

“What?” Louis asks, apprehension coiling at the base of his spine. “What is it?”

Wordlessly, Harry holds his phone out to him.

Louis takes it and looks at the screen.

The browser is open to one of those trashy tabloid sites, and filling the screen is a grainy picture of him and Harry, standing by the bathroom of the Cosmopolitan, kissing.

“I got recognized yesterday,” Harry says. “One of them must’ve taken this. It’s everywhere.”

Louis stares at the picture. It’s unfocused and was obviously taken in a hurry; their features are blurry, but it’s more than clear what they’re doing. The headline reads, HARRY STYLES GAY?! HEARTTHROB SPOTTED GETTING INTIMATE WITH MAN IN LAS VEGAS!

Slowly, Louis says, “You’re not out.”

Harry shakes his head.

“No. I’m not,” he says softly. “My PR team just called me. They want me to deny everything. Say that it isn’t me. The picture’s bad enough quality for it to be plausible.”

Something curdles in Louis’ stomach, heavy and sour. “And you? What do you want?”

Harry meets his eyes. “I want whatever you want.”

Louis balks. “That’s not--”

“Hear me out, Louis. Please. This involves you, too. I don’t want you to think you’re like, my dirty little secret or something. Of course I don’t want to be forced into the closet. But if I do what my PR team tells me to, it’ll keep you safe. You won’t be outed, and you won’t be hounded by paps and tabloids. I--I’ll do whatever gives us a chance of making this work.”

Louis stares at him. “Us? This?”

Harry flushes, and he looks down. “That’s, um. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I want us to try again. You...you don’t have to say yes.”

Louis feels as if he’s been doused in ice water, but at the same time, a simmering anger builds in his throat, because _what_? “Harry. You’re the one who left. You don’t get to make noble gestures. You don’t get to leave and then decide that you want me back, that you’re willing to fucking _closet_ yourself for my sake. You _left_.”

Just saying the words tears at the wound in Louis’ heart, the wound Harry had ripped into him when, three years ago, he showed up at Louis’ door with a carefree smile and a bounce in his step and told Louis that he wasn’t going to be part of White Eskimo anymore, that he’d been offered a contract as a solo artist and he’d signed it already, that he was going to LA soon to work on recording an album and he was going to a label party to meet important people in the industry, wasn’t that _great_ and _exciting_?

They’d broken up a week later.

Harry’s eyes flash. “ _I_ left?"

"I sure as hell didn't go anywhere."

"I didn’t either, Louis. I left the band, yeah, but I was still there. You just refused to see me.”

Louis whirls on Harry at that, fire snapping in his eyes. “Me? It’s my fault?"

Harry lets out a frustrated puff of air. "I'm not blaming anyone. Just--were you really that mad that I left White Eskimo? Was it worth breaking up over?"

Louis shakes his head. "You still don't get it, do you?"

"What?"

"Nothing. It doesn't matter."

Louis makes to walk away, because he's tired and hungover and in too deep already, but Harry stops him with a hand to his arm.

"No." Harry's face is as dead-serious as Louis' ever seen it, eyes sharp and mouth hard. "We're going to talk, Louis. I'm sick of us dancing around each other like this."

Louis yanks his arm away, temper flaring again. "You want to talk? Fine. Let's talk. Let's talk about how you fucking _left_ me, Harry. Was I mad that you left the band? Yeah. But what really fucking hurt was that you left _me._ We were the fucking dream team. We were supposed to be in it together, and you broke that. So don't put this on me.”

Incredulous, Harry says, “What are you talking about? I never left you. I never _wanted_ to leave you.”

“It doesn’t matter, because you still did. You made your choice, and it wasn’t me.”

“I didn’t want us to break up!” Harry rakes a hand through his hair in frustration. “I didn’t. I chose to go solo, yeah, but I didn’t choose it over you. I wanted both.”

Louis snorts. “So, what? You just expected me to go with it? Drop everything and be your number one groupie? Poor, needy little Louis, following his rich and famous boyfriend around like a lost puppy.”

Harry’s mouth is a thin line. “You know that’s not what I thought.”

“Do I, Harry? Because I thought I knew you, I thought I _trusted_ you, and you proved me wrong. So no, I don’t know.”

“You never even gave me a chance!” Harry’s pulling at his necklaces, the way he does when he’s agitated. “I told you I’d chosen to take the deal, and you shut me out completely. You wouldn’t talk to me, no matter how hard I tried. You’re the one who ended it, Louis. Not me.”

“Don’t try to pin this on me,” Louis snarls. “Not when you didn’t even bother telling me about the deal before taking it.”

“Because I thought no matter what, you’d be happy for me! I thought you’d be supportive!”

“I would have been, if you’d just talked to me before you signed that stupid fucking contract so you could run around Beverly Hills or where ever and schmooze with celebrities! But no, you just showed up out of nowhere one day and dropped a fucking bomb on me. Like I didn’t even fucking matter, like I was just some fling--”

“I loved you, Louis!” Harry cuts in, voice booming through the room like lightning, like a thunderstorm. “I loved you, and I never even got to tell you.”

Everything goes silent.

“Don’t,” Louis whispers, hating how small his voice sounds in the expanse of the room. “Don’t say that.”

“I loved you,” Harry says again, firm.

Louis shakes his head, and he’s crumbling, feeling the collapse of civilizations in his bones. “I don’t believe you.”

“I’m telling the _truth_ , Louis.”

“Then why didn’t you think about me before taking that deal?” Louis shouts, and his voice is trembling the tiniest bit, and he hates it. “You didn’t even care what it would do to me, to us, you just took it! What was I supposed to think, Harry? That you did it because you _loved_ me? God, I--I felt so fucking stupid, you know that? Because I gave you so much, I _trusted_ you, and you just fucking spit it back at me.  And the worst part is, for a while, I blamed myself. I thought I wasn’t enough to make you stay with me, that you were always going to be the brightest star in the sky and we were never meant to last, we were never--”

“Stop,” Harry says, and fuck, he’s crying, eyes bottle glass green and shining with tears that run glistening down his flushed cheeks. Louis’ insides tremble at the sight. “Stop, Louis, please. Just stop.”

Louis stops.

Harry leans forward, close enough to touch, close enough for Louis to see a tear wobble at the rim of his eye and spill over. “Listen to me, Louis. I loved you. I would have done anything for you. I _loved you._ I was just a dumb freshman, and nothing made sense except music and you. Always you. So don’t you dare say you weren’t good enough, or that we were never meant to last, because--” he bites his lip, another tear leaving a trail of starlight down his cheek, “because I don’t think I’m meant for anyone but you.”

Silence again, but this time, it’s different. It’s rose-tinted and delicate, this silence, as fragile as the green of Harry’s eyes.

Louis feels raw at the edges, ripped and bruised, but the smallest bud of something that feels like hope begins to blossom in his chest.

“Harry, I,” Louis says, and then stops. And it’s rare that he’s speechless, but then again, Harry’s always had that effect on him, hasn’t he?

Harry exhales shakily and thumbs away a tear. “I’m sorry, Louis. I should have told you before signing. I was so excited, and I wanted to surprise you. I guess I just took you for granted and thought that you would go along with it no matter what.”

Louis swallows. There's a small planet in his throat, and his heart is thundering against his fragile-feeling ribs, but it seems so easy to say, “I’m sorry, too.”

And fuck, if the words don’t feel like a scab falling off, leaving something untouched and healed in its place. Louis looks away for a moment, then meets Harry’s eyes again. “I shouldn’t have cut you out like that. You broke my heart, and I didn’t know how to deal with it. I felt abandoned and stupid and I was so angry, Harry. I--I was so fucking in love with you, and I thought you didn’t want me anymore.”

“Louis,” Harry says, laughing wetly. “I wanted you more than anything. I think if you’d told me to, I would’ve ripped up that contract.” He pauses, then says, “Can I tell you a secret?”

Louis blinks, confusion creasing his brow. “Um. Sure.”

“My first album. _Dreaming in Blue_. I wrote it about you.”

Louis stares at him in silence, and then, without warning, breaks into howling, body-wracking laughter.

“Why are you laughing?” Harry asks, the lines of his body gone tense again.

Louis can’t speak, laughter still spilling from his mouth until he’s crouching on the ground, clutching at his stomach. He laughs until he can’t laugh anymore, and then he says, “I used to listen to that album, and I’d imagine that it was about me. There are some bits that made me so sure, but I convinced myself otherwise. And now you tell me this, and I just. Harry.”

“You listened to it?” Harry asks, voice soft and small.

“Every fucking day for a month after it came out.”

"I thought you hated my music."

Louis laughs again, self-deprecating. “God, I’ve been an idiot, haven’t I? And an asshole.”

“Um, yes. A bit.” Harry offers up a small grin, one that Louis cautiously returns.

“I’m sorry. For everything. I said awful things to you. I even sang that song to you at that first rehearsal, oh god.” He buries his face in his hands. “I really am an asshole.”

“That wasn’t cool,” Harry agrees. “But it’s okay. It’s behind us, just like everything else. What matters is everything after this.”

Louis raises his head and meets Harry’s eyes. They’re red-rimmed, tears still lingering like dewdrops in the corners, but they’re solemn and open.

“I meant what I said, Louis. I want us to try again.”

“And if it doesn’t work?” Louis asks, even though _yes_ is already on his tongue.

Harry smiles, and it’s a beautiful thing. “It will.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because we’re here,” Harry says, simply. “Because we were always meant to be here.”

A smile spreads on Louis’ face, growing until it almost hurts, and Louis’ chest feels full of flowers, an entire garden blooming on his heart and twisting around his ribcage. “Okay. Let’s try again, then.” He holds up a finger. “On one condition.”

“Anything.”

“Come out if you want to, and only if _you_ want to. Chivalry is dead, anyway.”

Harry’s grin is slow and looks like the sun, and for once, Louis isn’t scared of being burned. “Simon won’t like it.”

Louis grins back. “Simon can go fuck himself.”

 

\--

 

Later, in a different hotel room in a different city, Harry whispers, “Can I tell you another secret?”

He feels Louis’ cheek lift in a smile. “Let’s have it, then.”

He finds Louis’ hand, brings it to his mouth and whispers into the hot crease of his palm, “I still love you.”

“That’s not a secret. Everybody knows that.”

Harry swats him playfully. “ _You_ didn’t.”

Louis laughs, but his voice is soft and achingly honest when he says, “I love you, too. Always have.”

The sun has set, night thick and heavy in the room, but even in the darkness, their lips find each other as if they’ve never known anything else, and maybe it’s a promise, and maybe it’s a beginning, and maybe it’s an end.

Maybe it’s all three.

 

 

 


	2. Epilogue

 

 

Louis tugs at his collar for the hundredth time.

This suit feels so constricting, makes him feel stuffy and too polished. It looks good--a starched white shirt paired with a fitted suit jacket and pants, the black fabric dotted all over with silver specks, like a galaxy--but it’s not Louis. He feels like he’s putting on a front.

They’re at the MTV Video Music Awards, Dizzy November having been nominated for Best New Artist. It’s their first awards show ever, and Louis feels lost at sea--a sea of glamorous, glittering people with perfectly white teeth. It’s intimidating, and he can’t shake the thought that he doesn’t belong here.

“Babe, stop fidgeting. You look gorgeous.”

A large, warm hand reaches over to smooth out his collar, gone askew from Louis’ nervous fingers, before moving down to squeeze Louis’ thigh reassuringly. And really, it’s unfair, how easily Louis melts into Harry’s touch, instantly relaxing.

“If anyone looks gorgeous, it’s you,” he murmurs, giving Harry an exaggerated once-over because he knows it’ll make him laugh.

It’s definitely true, though; Harry is a vision in a perfectly-cut suit and a creamy lace button-up that’s just transparent enough for traces of the ink that stains his skin to bleed through. Louis can’t wait to peel it off of him later.

Next to them, Niall makes gagging sounds and says, “The award for sappiest couple goes to…”

The mention of awards almost makes Louis feel like he’s suffocating again.

“Hey,” Harry says softly, having instantly picked up on the way Louis’ body had tensed. He strokes a thumb over Louis’ cheekbone, and Louis’ never been a huge fan of PDA, but when it comes to Harry, he craves every touch, doesn’t care who’s watching because when Harry’s eyes or hands or skin are on him nothing matters but them. “You guys are amazing. You’re going to win.”

“You don’t know that,” Louis says. Harry always sounds so sure of these things.

“I know it,” Harry replies, dimpling. “I know it, the same way I knew you’re the one for me.”

“Oh my god,” Niall says, sounding equal parts disgusted and touched. “Liam, Zayn, get this on video. Nicholas Sparks doesn’t have shit on this.”

From his seat next to Liam, Zayn snickers.

Louis had met Zayn for the second time around a month ago, when they'd returned to LA to finish up the tour, and ever since, Zayn has not shut up about being the one responsible for Harry and Louis getting back together. He's a gorgeous pain in the ass, and Louis, Niall, and Liam have all grown to love him.

“You two so much as touch your phones and I will kill you both,” Louis says calmly, eyes still fixed on Harry. His hand is still on Louis’ face, and it’s ridiculous, how quickly and easily they’ve fallen back into each other in the seven months that have passed since the Vegas show.

Harry had come out with little fanfare, simply Instagramming a picture of him and Louis in bed, Louis asleep and curled into Harry’s shoulder, the caption reading _[Back off loneliness, and hello tenderness](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OJ1-8--jYdY)_.

Harry had been right; Simon didn’t like it. But he hadn’t been able to force his hand, either, especially after a few vaguely threatening e-mails from Zayn. It’s been a rollercoaster since, Louis thrust into the spotlight like never before, and it’s been a lot to take in. Louis knows, though, that after all this, after all the hurting and the healing, they’re unshakable. They’re in this together.

Harry smudges a kiss on his cheek, and then there’s no more time for gentle touches and quiet reassurances because the screens on stage are playing a montage of the nominees for Best New Artist. Dizzy November appears, the fans in the pit in front of the stage cheering loudly, Harry joining right in with them.

Louis stares at the stage as the host turns the envelope over in her hands. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Niall and Liam, just as tense, poised at the edge of their seats.

Harry folds his fingers into his, solid and comforting.

“And the award for Best New Artist goes to…” the host pulls the card out of the envelope, and Louis stops breathing for a second.

“Dizzy November!”

Cheers burst out through the venue, but all Louis hears is the rapid, unsteady thump of his heart and Niall and Liam’s excited cries. They jump to their feet, the three of them, piling onto each other and hugging tight, tight. The air feels like champagne, sweet and bubbly and intoxicating.

They break apart, because they have to go on stage and accept the award, but just before he follows after Liam and Niall, Louis tugs Harry in by the back of his neck and kisses him. A few whistles ring out through the crowd, and Louis knows the cameras must be on them, but he can’t bring himself to care.

When he pulls back, Harry looks dazed. Louis grins wolfishly at him before letting him go and jogging after Liam and Niall.

They accept the award, exchanging friendly hugs with the host, and then the microphone’s being passed to Liam.

“Thank you. Thank you,” he says, voice booming through the venue. “This is such an incredible honor. We’d like to take this moment to thank our fans, because we wouldn’t be here without you. So truly, thank you.”

Another round of cheers, and then the microphone is in Niall’s hands.

“What can I say? We’ve got the best fans in the world!” More cheers.

Niall holds the microphone out to Louis, and shit, he doesn’t have anything planned. He didn’t think they’d actually win. He takes the microphone, the cool metal of the handle heavy in his palm, and looks out at the glimmering crowd. It’s pretty dark, but like a compass, his eyes find Harry, and suddenly, he knows exactly what to say.

He swallows, and when he speaks, he nearly flinches at how loud his voice sounds, but he doesn't stop. “Ever since I was a kid, music was everything to me. It helped me when I was sad. It made my happy days happier. It spoke to me, and it touched me, and I dreamed of the day that I could make music that could make people feel like that, too. So the fact that we’re standing here, accepting this award...it’s unbelievable. It’s a dream come true. Thank you for making this possible.”

He takes a breath. “But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past year, it’s that there’s music in people, too. So before we step off this stage, I’d like to say one more thank you to Harry Styles. Thank you, Harry, for being the music in my life.”

There’s applause, and it’s deafening, and Liam is beaming at him and looking a little teary-eyed, and through it all, there’s Harry’s smile, brighter than the spotlights of the stage, brighter than every star in the sky.

And yeah, Louis thinks. Harry’s the one for him.

 

THE END

 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading!! i hope you enjoyed it. the alternating pov is something i'm pretty insecure about because i don't like using it much, but let me know your guys' thoughts; comments and kudos mean the absolute world to me!  
> i'll link my tumblr once authors are revealed ;-)  
> ps, i really did get louis' band's name from a name generator, just like he says LOL  
> also, i realized after i'd already finished this that i missed the opportunity to write tour bus shenanigans and i'm very disappointed in myself.
> 
> edit: authors have been revealed so hello!! you can find me on tumblr @daemn or @antilarry (my 1d sideblog) <3


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